


A Collection of Verses and Thoughts

by Bai_Marionette



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Multi, Warning(s) by chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-05-15 03:38:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 53,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5769811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bai_Marionette/pseuds/Bai_Marionette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are just some of the ideas I have but never fully write out into full-fledged stories; might be a few future story snippets here and there, but otherwise- enjoy the K-Explicit rated drabbles. Warnings vary by chapter and they are posted in the top notes of each segment.</p><p>Inspired by VKDrabs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Immaculate Craft

**Author's Note:**

> Drabble #1: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: Explicit / Prompt: A lonely witch 'seducing and perfecting' his human lover. / WARNING: Contains referenced somnophilia, bloodplay, amputation, graphic violence and sewing buttons into a person's eyes. Partial necrophilia and graphic sadism.

> "He had such pretty eyes, Alfred thought. Such beautiful purple eyes, nice and round, ripe and plump for the taking- What the witch wouldn't do just to taste them, to swirl them in his mouth and crush them slowly, no wait, he had to suck the moisture off of them first then chew. He had to savor those eyes. They would not be on the Russian man's face for long. Oh no, in a short amount of time, those eyes would be devoured and Ivan would be just another pretty doll sitting upon Alfred's shelf.
> 
> He couldn't wait."

* * *

Alfred almost couldn't help himself, but to grab his member through his pants, inhaling sharply at the beautiful sight before him on his examining table. He barely held back a moan at the sight: The Russian was still fully clothed for the time being, eyes softly closed and mouth drawn open in silent breaths, chest rising and falling easily. All of this, all of these precious details, every single last one as if nothing was wrong and the man's life was not going to be changed forever.

Such a lucky man, indeed.

Alfred walked with almost a pep in his step, crossing the several feet to the examining table and just examining his soon-to-be newest doll. Such beautiful porcelain skin, little freckles to be later painted on and amplified on such a handsome face. The witch continued to silently examine the human, cataloging each and every detail to his mind. The Russian was by no means perfect, but his imperfections made him so. Greasy, unkempt curls to be cleaned and straightened into soft pale hairs with slight dolllike curled tips. Eyelashes lengthened and curled to a more suitable length, smoothing out the bump on the man's overly large nose, polishing over those old pox scars - and was that herpes on the man's lips?

My, my, the witch grinned. He couldn't wait to have his fill in making this doll beautiful.

The man awoke after some time, it could have minutes or hours, the witch did not keep track during his admiration. But the way the human opened his eyes, blinking in confusion and then trying to panic was worth it. Seeing those pretty eyes open up, dark pupils shrink in terror, it made something and everything sinful stir in the witch's loins. He smiled to himself as the human tried to scream, wrenching at leather straps binding him to the examining table, screaming his thought hoarse in some pretty but unknown tongue to the deaf stone walls of the basement below the witch's shop.

The same shop where the witch had first eyes upon this man.

Such a lovely time ago it had been, he could almost remember how later in the night, Alfred had hitchhiked upon the man's shadow walking home, following him to his bedroom and then just stroking his cock to the human's deep breaths. The slit just bare inches from those thin lips, pink tongue tucked inside and waiting for his seed with an eager throat to swallow the sterile fluids.

The witch sighed aloud during his memory, blinking back to the present as he traced his nimble fingers over a pair of sharp scissors. He gazed at his reflection in them for a split second, smile growing wider, as the Russian took sight of his face and more fear practically soaked his entire form. He was stiff for brief seconds as he watched Alfred cut away at the edge of his pants, humming to himself. The man's cheap belt of rope was no match for the scissors, ragged boots were abandoned and tossed aside to a growing pile of others, as the witch began unbuttoning the human's shirt. Holding it close to his face to sniff it, the witch could smell sweat, the man's very own natural musk, the dry ice of vodka and stale bread. A slight piece of chilled stone with a hint of morning dew from when the man had gone to work in the morning at the docks, sea salt still hanging onto his clothes as if fresh.

Even his genitals smelled rich, the witch thought to himself, snipping the undergarments away and ignoring how the human tried to jerk and twist away from him. Sharp nails pressured threateningly into the thick skin of the man's thighs as the witch took a much desired deep whiff, trying to gauge when the man had last bathed and cleaned himself accordingly. By the time he made and finished his calculations, putting the scissors back on a nearby moving cart to take up a dark bottle of rubbing alcohol and an old rag, the human was crying. No, he was begging with tears in his eyes, oh how cute.

The witch licked a stream of salty fluids from the man's chin back up to his left eye, kissing the skin briefly, and pulling away with a soft smile. He poured the alcohol and a few other scents, floral mostly with a pinch of aloe oil to soothe that mild rash the human had on his testicles. The human was sobbing, begging again in that weird tongue of his, as Alfred listened. He could no longer scream, he sounded like his throat was sore. Alfred made a mental note to use some oils and a scraping tool when he carved the man later.

Wetting the cloth in the pool of collected oils and alcohol, he began to wipe away the ills and grimes of human life from the soon-to-be doll. The skin had to be nice and clean before carving, much less polishing or refining, dirty skin never looked good under light and the last thing the witch wanted was an imperfect doll.

The human babbled things that sounded like prayers and pleads, as the witch silently washed away the dirt and soils off of his body. He bit his lip a couple of times, pausing to wash over the man's impressive cock and the thick meat of his thighs more than once; if only, the witch thought, if only, he could have had more time to indulge in using the man's body as he would have wished.

Ah well.

When the skin was clean and softened with oils, smelling much better than when the man first arrived, Alfred put the bowl of oil under the second rack of the cart, retrieving a medium tub of water. Snapping his fingers, the water began to emit steam, a few small bubbles of hot water coming to the surface before sizzling down. The human noticeably panicked, voice hitching high a few octaves before thrashing his head and trying to pull at his wrists and ankles once more. The witch could hear the man's heartbeat from just a few inches to his side, licking his lips slowly as he picked up an eight inch blade to begin carving.

Slicing in the collarbone first, the witch's breath hitched in pleasure as the man's screaming renewed, blood welling to the surface, as Alfred continued down in a Y-shaped incision before pausing at the human's navel. He gave himself and the human a moment to collect themselves, the human's breath shuddering on near sobs as tears welled down his fat cheeks, and the witch rolling his tongue in his mouth to contain himself from leaping at his victim.

Victim.

Prey.

Adoration.

Love.

The knife was suddenly embedded in the human's thigh, blood rushing to the surface much more quickly, the human screams bellowing out and echoing over the room. No one would hear them, no one would ever hear them, the walls were made of thick, cold stone and magically spelled to hold the sound forever. This human was not Alfred's first victim, nor his last, he had just happened to be a favorite recently- a new toy to add to his collection upon the shelf to sell in the future to some unwittingly customer.

Carving was not the hardest part of the witch's job in doll making, but it was among the messiest. Bones were exposed, sawed into and wiped of blood, before the witch made to pick at tendons and muscles with his tweezers and throw away any tiny imperfection under the human's flesh. Skin was thinly peeled back and then pinned to the paper underneath the man to secure the witch's progress. Ligaments were collected to be thrown away later, there was no need of them when wooden joints and false ones worked so much better and were less prone to error or degradation.

It was all so beautiful, so enticing, the very color and scent of the man's blood so delectable to the witch. The blonde leaned into the human's abdominal cavity, tongue already out to lap at the red pooling out from underneath exposed organs, The witch's tongue was nothing like silk, it was rough and the very tip was lined with lead - giving the man's organs a sense of chilling sandpaper going over its surface in short, but quick movements. The blood was so warm, the witch indulged himself so much, nails diving so quickly underneath the man's bone and then snapping it in half like a dried corn husk out in the summer sun at the same moment that the witch took a vicious bite of the human's intestines. The human howled in pain and the witch held the blood and gore in his mouth for a whole moment of bliss.

Eyes flickering dark for a second, the witch took a deep breath, swallowing everything whole and then sighed deeply.

Then the savagery begun.

The witch lost all gentleness and patience, abandoning the carving knife and picking up a large butcher knife. He just began chopping and severing bones and tissues and ligaments and muscles and all. He was deaf to the screams, the hollers, the sound of the blade against the metal examining paper and the sound of paper tearing mercilessly against the banging noises. In those short moments of ecstasy and eternity combined, the witch could barely remember breathing actual air, blood was the oxygen running through his lungs, the fire through his veins and the very essence driving him wholeheartedly and completely. A painful erection was had long started in the witch's pants, straining through the fabric and the witch wanted nothing more than to just grab his cock and rub himself to completion or better yet, fuck the exposed and savagely ruined and mutilated body below him. Feeling the blood and smashed internal organs against his cock, the sounds of squishing and squelching shoving him over the brink none too kindly rather than gently easing him to orgasm.

Then all of a sudden, it all stopped.

The witch regained his breath slowly, putting away the butcher knife and picking up a saw to remove the mutilated limbs. No use in them now, they weren't pretty anymore, all bloodied and jagged and jutting broken shards and edges. Blood covered the front of Alfred's apron and parts of his shoulders, his rolled up sleeves were nearly drenched in blood, his glasses were speckled with it, he licked the gore from his lips and sighed.

Time went on slowly after that, removing organs and organic tissues from the body, disemboweling and eviscerating anything that would rot or waste away and make the incomplete skeleton of the doll. With the bones removed, the witch set them aside to be begin polishing and refining later for the doll's porcelain 'skin.'

-

By the time dawn cracked over the horizon, the basement was barely survived by the last of the candles left burning and the human nearly completely recreated. It would be cleaned out later on, but for now, the witch was above and on the main floor. He had washed and changed, carrying a small basket of threads and buttons to complete his new 'doll.'

Magically shrunken down to a more appealing size, the witch smiled down upon what looked to be his most proudest work yet. He took a scented rag once more, wetting it in the bowl and cleaning off the last few bits on the smooth face. Once thin lips were now recreated to be plump and forming a nice 'heart' kissing gesture. Fat cheeks were reshaped to be more attractive upon higher cheekbones, silky soft and pale blonde hair sat atop the doll's head and smelt softly of the lilac oils that Alfred had spent over an hour applying to it. The nose had been corrected and smoothed down, the brow shortened from being overbearing but the last and final addition had yet to be done.

The eyes.

Alfred looked among his threads, humming to himself, watching people go by his shop windows, sometimes peering in, sometimes walking right on past without a glance. He needed a perfect color, he told himself, something to blend into the Russian's 'skin' whilst not standing out too starkly against the new buttons he had crafted last night. The new shiny pair of buttons sitting proudly in the lit room on the counter. Two stunningly purple buttons with remarkable similarity to the human's old eyes. They glittered like near gems, a decorative polish having been added to make them shine even better and brighter under light and scrutiny.

Indeed, Alfred told himself, flexing the needles he disguised underneath polymer clay as his fingers. He pushed the thread through the hole of his pointer finger, tying it smirking to himself. This was truly to be his best doll yet.

The doll almost seemed to shiver in excitement as Alfred cradled the small body in his lap in the rocking chair by the counter, pushing the thread through the carefully measured holes and easing the buttons into place. The tiny body in his lap almost seemed to pull away and resist, but the witch smirked wider. He knew he had won and he knew more than damned well that once the buttons were sewn into place, the tiny body would and forever remain as his little perfect obedient creation.

-

The early afternoon sun came through the windows as Alfred wiped the counter and put away his sewing supplies underneath the counter space. His newest doll stood posed on the counter top, holding a small book of classical French poetry to his chest and a noble walking cane to 'prop' itself up in another. Small white gloves met golden cuff links complimented with an ivory and light gray three-piece suit. An outfit befitting of a true noble, finished with a miniature top hat in matching colors. A lilac flower sat in the doll's front breast pocket adjacent to the handkerchief.

Alfred gazed upon his newest creation, hands carefully back in their clay and under decorative gloves, smiling. Customers - new and returning - all flocked to admire the newest creation. Ooh'ing and aah'ing at its beauty and careful detail. Patrons all complimented his skill and dedication to bring such masterpieces together, the witch feigned being humble and calling a rare skill of trade and passion.

He looked away the doll in a single moment, seeing a familiar worn face, asking passersby with a poster, mouth moving quickly in the form of woods that the witch could just barely make out. The young woman standing next to her looked to be on the verge of crying herself, wringing a wet rag in her hands as yet another person shook their head in a response. The two women sniffled to each other, hugging briefly for support, before moving on - whether to ask more people or simply go home was questionable but not having requiring the witch's interest.

He grinned inwardly before looking back at his newest doll, smiling fondly at it before making eyes with one young woman in particular admiring the doll. She had big green eyes, short blonde hair held back with a bow and she wore an adorable small smile, clutching a doll to her flat chest, as she stood beside a stern faced older male.

Alfred smiled at her, asking her in particular if she would like to hold the doll.

"His name is Ivan," the witch answered in response to her question about its name. A tiny flicker of interest in her eyes before he continued, "I wanted to name him after a great Russian poet I have been reading from in recent."

Her eyes lit up, "Do you have the book with you? May I-

Her chaperon almost cut her off, but the witch laughed, waving his hand. "It's fine, she's fine, of course. I do have the book, I'd be willing to lend it to you later, ah," he feigned. "What is your name?"

"Lillie!" She said happily, she took her chaperon's arm in one of hers and clutched Ivan tightly to her chest alongside her other one. "And this is my big brother, Vash! We're both fans of your work."

Alfred smiled, he knew he would a fan of her among his works on his shelves too.

 


	2. Definition of a Sinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some little Lambs have to get bitten in order for them to learn to fear the Wolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #2: Pairing Order: Rusxfem!Ame / Rating: Mature / Prompt: Just sin and dirty talk among the damned / WARNING: Implicit/semi-explicit fingering, implied sex, explicit sexual language, and vampires

Ivan was no stranger to Hell, the fruition of a hard opium addiction and prostitution, he grew up in the slums of New York City in the roaring twenties. America's high day, the days of gold and overflowing riches - or as he liked to see it, the days where you watched a man be thrown off of his chariot to taste the dirt he had long kicked in the face of others. Some had it all, but most had less than nothing, and very easily could someone from the very top take the suicidal plunge to the hard concrete below.

Ivan loved being on the ground the best. The blood was always fresh with the stench of regret, the sickly tang of exhaustion - the intoxicating and indescribable euphoria of another broken dream. The despair was rich in this city.

In this city, the vampire could very well live like a god.

He lived on it, thrived it - vampiric senses indulging in the very abundance of it all.

The blood was thick with despair, worries over money and debt, sinful and desperate bodies so much easier to entice with a few coins and a promise of a night of stress relief.

Such as in the case of his newest addiction; Amelia. Amelia Jones. She was beautiful. Her body was much too curvy to be hidden beneath the shapeless flapper dress she tried to wear. Her legs were toned from farm life, lips too thick and nose too wide to be simply the Caucasian heritage she claimed. But Ivan indulged in the little lie she told himself, letting herself be hidden under her light complexion and danced among alcoholics, drug addicts and their dealers in dark speakeasies. No one had to know her background. No one had to know her true self. They didn't have to know anything about her.

That was why Ivan loved her so much, not emotionally, no. She was his physical addiction, the very feel of her supple skin underneath his cool palm, robbing her flesh of its warmth; he saw himself as doing her a favor during their sex in the alley back behind the alley. His frigid center could use a thawing every now and again. He was keeping her from overheating among the other sweaty bodies.

She cried out in the night, head thrown back against the brick wall. Sweat lined her brow underneath her short bleached curls, lips done up in dark lipstick and blue eyes rolled back behind her eyelids as he continued to move his fingers inside of her. Juices fell down his wrist as she gripped his biceps, trying to take in breaths while also begging him for more.

The foolish wench.

"And how would you like it tonight, Hollywood?" Her alias rolled off of his tongue so nicely, her breath hitching before she keened, rolling her hips down upon his fingers, biting her lip to keep her voice down. She already had two strikes with this club for getting into fights, she didn't need to get caught with a customer. The boss would fire her quick and she wouldn't have a coin to her name to buy food, let alone pay her overdue rent.

"M-more," she grunted, brow furrowing, as her nails tried to bite into the man's cool skin. Ivan smiled against her throat, so warm against the embodiment of death, so enticing - but he held himself back. He wouldn't take her here, he needed to get her a little easier and closer to the brink before he took his fill and left her on the dirty concrete with the coins she needed to make it through the week.

Just like he always did.

Just as he always would.

When he was through with her, he threw down her allotted change, watching her snatch it up and count it quickly to be sure she wasn't being cheated. Ivan smirked as he readjusted his coat and began to turn away. As much of a devil as he acted out to be, he could be honest in this sense. He wouldn't cheat her on her pay. 

She needed all the help she could get.

Especially when the day came for her to become like the rest of his victims:

Splattered across the walls in a mess just like the alleyways she hid in with her clients. 

 

And then he'd walk out and off into the night just as any other night, smiling freely as the Damned do.

The despair in the air being the very energy to force his long dead heart to beat again.


	3. To Raise a King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small Child will be stolen in order to be a King; it is the just way, the valiant way - and the only way.
> 
> Otherwise, there will be no Kingdom left to rule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #3: Pairing Order: neutral RusAme/ Rating: T+ / Prompt: A take on the original story of Narnia / WARNING: Contains referenced child abuse, parental death and some minor bloodshed.

> "Sometimes the Lion pitied the boy. His mother had been among drug strewn filth upon the human streets, his father possibly a customer or her ruthless pimp. The babe had been abandoned after birth, left on the doorsteps of the orphanage blue from the cold of night and sickly in the face. Left to grew up under the pain of a wooden ruler, he had been quiet and anxious at first to approach but now he was becoming more open. More suitable as a Ruler. Or at least a Savior, in the case of the failure of the Revolution against the Witch. 
> 
> The boy was their only hope.
> 
> The Lion pitied him even more, it was much too heavy burden for a simple child. 

Even if it was his destiny.

"Lion?" The Lion started from his thoughts, looking down at the boy who walked alongside him. He needed a haircut soon, blond bangs falling into his eyes before he would push them away. The child pursed his lips together, attempting to frown but looking like he was pouting inside. The Lion waited patiently for the child to ask his question, pausing in the woodland path. Snow fell around his white fur. A white lion, odd in the world of humans and no less rare here in the Wardrobe either. The Lion was seen as a mythical beast; much larger than one would have ever dreamed with a completely white mane and strong, thick build. He had almost hypnotizing violet eyes and a rumored temper deadly enough to collapse entire mountains and villages all at once.

And yet he was the one to raise the destined King. How ironic. 

"Yes, child," the Lion asked when the child remained quiet. The boy just stared at him. Silent.

"Why do you never say my name?" The boy asked, "I got a name but ya never say it. You just call me 'Majesty' or somethin'. I ain't a Queen."

The Lion laughed under his breath, making the boy pout harder, before the beast licked at his face. The boy squealed, ducking under the fur, laughing. A short nuzzle to his face later and the beast replied, "You will be King someday so I must get used to always addressing my Ruler with respect."

The boy hummed from in-between the Lion's front legs, leaning on the right, as he usually preferred. "Hm, are we almost home yet?"

"Almost," the Lion replied.  He looked up, feeling snow fall upon his face. Snowflakes blended into his face and he closed his eyes, praying to whatever god might be listening that the winter wasn't a harsh one. The boy was still frail, he would not last long if he was freezing most nights. When he opened his eyes again, he continued on as if nothing had occurred, "Are you tired from walking? It has been a long while, hasn't it?"

"Yeah," the boy said. Then repeated himself, "Yeah. Can I ride on your back again? My feet hurt."

Lowering himself some, the boy climbed atop the Lion. Holding onto the beast's fur and stuffing his face in the mane, his voice was almost completely muffled, "Okay, I'm ready. You can walk now."

And so the Lion began walking down the snowy path, the boy fell asleep on his back and the night continued on.


	4. Spilled Milk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drug addiction makes paying bills hard but at least misery loves company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #4: Pairing Order: AmeRus / Rating: Mature / Prompt: Druggie couples / WARNING: Contains drug usage and addiction, alcoholism, use of slurs, implicit sex and character death. Referenced sex for drugs too, sorta dubcon - drugged out and no clear given consent.

> There was nothing like a good high. Sex could get them close - but drugs made everything so much better. 
> 
> Made the high even greater and sometimes even worth the inevitable crashing down.

Every time the pair were late on the rent, the landlord would give them a week to come up with an excuse, too much of a pushover and kind soul to know when two druggies were cheating him on being late on the some odd month in a row.

This month, Alfred's dog needed surgery and all their funds had gone into paying for it because they didn't have insurance.

The Miami-born native smiled too easy, closed lips so that he didn't show his rotting teeth and blackened gums, he didn't even have a dog and, even if he did, they weren't allowed to have pets in this complex. But the landlord pitied them, wished the dog to get better soon and then hobbled off to do whatever he did when he wasn't banging on their door. 

Ivan grinned from their ratty couch, already lining up another white line, having already chased down three trails before and his pupils blown way out of proportion. His grin was dopey and he shakily put down the razor blade and rolled up dollar bill. He patted his dirty hands to his even dirtier sweatpants, beckoning Alfred to his lap. His teeth were a little better off than Alfred since he snorted but no less disgusting. He drank so heavily now, vodka practically the second greatest thing in his system than cocaine. He would barely eat other than the cheap food he'd get off the dollar menu of some fast food joint. He used to hate junk food and the like, used to just be kicking his drinking habit, used to be paying his bills on time in some white picket fence neighborhood after his fiancee's death left him with more than just a little burning weight in his pockets.

But then he had met Alfred, a Florida babe with a body that more than enticed Ivan from the bar to his bed and given him his first hit.

Alfred owned him now, body and soul, and the once proud business executive barely had a penny to his name half the time he was conscious and sober. He was more than just in debt, he was in the red, the bank had called his phone so much, he threw the device away and went off the radar. His belongings sold for more of the drugs and booze, anything to keep the pretty lad in his bed and the two substances he loved using the most: alcohol and cocaine.

His lover preferred dope over snow, but that was fine. He paid for his own, most of the time. Sometimes he'd sweet talk and scratch someone's crotch for another few ounces, but he would always get his way. 

Startled back to the present as a cool, lubed finger poked in-between the cracks of his ass, Ivan blinked and then grunted. The high had more than kicked in but bottoming never quite stopped feeling weird for the first minute or so. Alfred called him a 'pussy' for it any time he complained about it, saying he had taken for the other plenty of times and never got to top often, so Ivan just learned to be quiet and take it. It made things easier when the younger was in a good mood rather than a bad one.

Sex was infinitely better than Ivan remembered it ever being before. He couldn't be sure if this was because he was losing his memories of his life previous to the drugs quicker than he was getting high or it really was better. All he knew was that it felt great. Even when Alfred tore his skin apart with red lines and weeping cuts with his broken and jagged yellowed nails. Both of them were sweaty and greasy by the end of it, Ivan pushing his overgrown hair out of his pox-covered face and smiling at the head down on his chest. Luckily, he had finished in time with the rest of his high, easily coming quick under the last of his lover's thrusts and falling back against cheap faux-leather. His breath was heavy and he thought he saw Alfred chuckling, his vision too blurred to discern for sure.

He started to sit up, barely feeling the ache in his lower back when he saw Alfred roll over and hit the floor, face-first.

Even under his lingering high, Ivan knew a bad sign when he saw one. He reached down from the ratty sofa, calling out Alfred's name in his good ear, the ear that hadn't gone deaf over his long years of drug abuse. When the younger was rolled over, his eyes were halfway rolled to the back of his sockets, dull and bloodshot, he had white foam at the edge of his mouth and blood down his nose. His skin was rapidly cooling and he felt like he had been sweating buckets just a second before death. 

Dead.

Ivan started to sob and let out a gut-wrenching wail throughout the apartment.

The drugs didn't feel so great anymore. 

 


	5. Oh My God(s)!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anya finds herself in the strong embrace of the goddess of wisdom during her study abroad in Greece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #5: Pairing Order: fem!RusAme / Rating: T+ / Prompt: Greco-Roman gods verse; Athena!Amelia and human fem!Russia/ WARNING: nothing tbh

> Sometimes, Anya admired the living incarnation of Athena - Amelia was beautiful and more than brilliant. But she was prideful, stubborn and more than quick tempered. The senior art student loved the goddess all the same, even when she demanded submission, but she never backed down when the usually marble statue tried to start a fight. She would hold her ground and somehow, she just knew, this made all the difference in their developing relationship. 
> 
> Or maybe it didn't, a lesbian can dream that her would be-girlfriend would give a damn beyond her ancient pride. 

"Oh he's a downright bastard," Amelia snarked from her marble podium, sighing dramatically and stretching strong arms above her blonde curls. Her body arched with the movement, uncrossing her legs before she smacked her lips and jumped down. Barely a sound and then she was walking straight for the art student trying to shush her. The goddess waved her hand, finding the mere act of a human trying to silence her amusing and not in the least a bit threatening. "Oh, c'mon child, you can't tell me he's not. You've heard of the things Zeus has done - he deserved it."

The goddess smiled sweetly, too sweetly, much like a cat that knew it had caught the mouse it had been chasing so long. Her tanned fingers found their way underneath a pale chin and then snatching a pale scarf to yank the mortal woman down to her level, "Oh do you dear to cross me too?"

"Wha-" Anya barely managed to reply, "I wasn't -!"

Amelia's eyes narrowed, her notorious temper showing fast, as her lips slimmed into a thin line on her face.  
A warning.

"I was not," Anya took a deep breath through her nose and let it out through her mouth, meeting the goddess' blue gaze with her own violet hues. "I will not fight you."

"Yeah, 'cos you won't win," Amelia replied, suddenly letting go to walk in the direction of a random hallway. "I am the goddess of war, after all."

"More like a pain in my ass," the art student griped under her breath. A crack of thunder sounded and Anya ducked before a marble podium could fly into her head. Her eyes all but bugged out of her skull as she spun on her heel, face heating up at the damage to a hundred-year-old vase now lying in hundred year old pieces on the tile. "Shit! Melya! Shit, shit, shit - I can't pay for that!" She pointed at the damage, looking back at the goddess who huffed in response and blew her breath up to move her bangs out of her eyes.

The goddess adjusted the crown on her head, turning on her heel and marching off, "I don't care."

"Melya!" Anya shouted, running after her. "I can barely afford car insurance on a rental! I can't pay for that artifact, I - don't you ignore me, Melya! Melya!" 

The goddess' laughter was heard throughout the halls of the museum, the other gods hidden in statues either rolling their eyes or snickering at the curious sight. The goddess of wisdom suddenly stopping and turning right around so that the mortal woman ran into her arms before she crushed her in a tight hug, spinning them on her heels and singing old songs in ancient tongues long forgotten. The student shrieked, getting dizzy, begging the other to stop as the goddess kept dancing around the tile.

There were only some few weeks left to the girl's study abroad program left, one only had so little time to make long lasting memories before their next meeting.

Amelia smiled at Anya at the end of her song, kissing her nose in affection, the student looking a slight worse for wear from the nonstop twirling and quick dance motions. But the kiss made her smile, if only weakly, muttering a soft, "I love you, Melya."

The goddess' eyes twinkled, slowing their dance to a few slow steps to give the mortal time to collect her breath, humming to herself.


	6. Lust Driven to be Violent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When one dined with the Devil, it was always best to carry an Ace just in case he wanted to cheat at the post-meal card game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #6: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: M / Prompt: Cold War era, dinner with thy enemy. Canonverse. / WARNING: Minor historical references and some derogatory homophobic language. One sided sexual attraction?

> The sound of silverware clanking against dinner plates almost sounded systematic to the American nation sitting at the dinner table. He pretended to sip the soup in front of him, it smelt like beets. He hadn't had beets since his colonial winter days. He didn't miss the tart taste and continued to pretend to sip at it. 
> 
> Russia continued to smirk across the table, his 'loyal family members' all sitting at their respective seats at the table silent and dutifully consuming their table. That smirk pissed off America. Like Hell, he would actually eat the soup - no telling what drugs were in it.

"Are you enjoying your borscht?" Russia asked from above the table, spooning his own mouthful behind a smirk of almost deceivingly white teeth. "You seem so quiet compared to your normal chatter during meetings."

America smiled thinly, eyes cold behind his glasses before he used one gloved hand to push up the frames on his nose. "It's good, good - better than I thought it'd be. Thank you, Rus-"

Russia's eye twitched and America relished it as he purposely corrected himself, "-Soviet."

"Yes..." Russia began again, everyone at the table noticeably going still and silent at their 'Big Brother's' rising temper. They looked among each other, deciding to feign that they would keep eating as not to anger their 'Big Brother' any further. "Well," Russia continued, "I just wanted to know since it does not seem like you are actually eating your soup."

His violet eyes were narrowed. 

America's were just as so, smiling broadly, as he put down his spoon and then pushed the bowl off the table. Glass hit the floor, the borscht spilled and America cocked his head, "There. All done. Let's chat."

Russia's anger was almost tangible in the frigid room. "Lithuania. Clean that up, now. Everyone else - you are dismissed." The undertone of 'Don't come out unless I personally tell you to" was immediately understood as they individually and orderly thanked Russia for his graciousness as their host and 'meal supplier' and 'for always being so good to them' before they left the room. 

America waited until the last person, Belarus in her dark blue dress and white apron, shut the door. Only he, Russia and a more than terror stricken Lithuania hurriedly cleaning the mess off the floor was left in the room. Russia's stare was so level and heavy that it could have sliced the very foundation his mansion rested on with a single glance. America's grin spelled disaster for anyone who dared to challenge him.

The air was so thick with tension.

"You wanted to chat, yes?" Russia said, rising from his seat. His accent was growing thicker, the sound of his military boots stepping so precisely on the hardwood floor and the sweep of his long double-breasted coat was a sight to see. His military medal shone so nicely in the candlelight on the table and lights overheard on the ceiling. He was almost charming in a sort of rugged, clean-shaven kind of way. But he was also disgusting communist scum. He lived on, depended on and breathed the very filth that America swore to eradicate off the face of the Earth. 

And for that, America would win this 'war' of theirs.  
No matter the cost.

"Oh, I did say that, right?" America spoke evenly, then his tone changed and both superpowers watched as Lithuania cleared his throat, excused himself and apologized for the mess that America had created. As soon as the Soviet state was gone, Russia had a thick hand around America's throat and the sound of his own head hitting the clothed table sent electricity down his spine.   
  
Domination was an almost shameful favorite of his.

"Do not disrespect me in my home, pig," Russia snarled through his teeth. Oh, his glare was as warm as Siberia and yet practically liquid fire going straight to America's lions. "Especially not in front of my States." 

America was cheesing, it was fun to rile up the large nation when he was seemingly so vulnerable under his 'tough' exterior. He was weak and he knew it, he needed control but he didn't have it, he was going to fall or already was falling - and yet he was still trying to cling to a slippery slope in the dark. The American nation laughed, "You don't scare me."

Russia snarled again, slamming the other nation's head against the table once more, and it took ever bit of self-control for the American not to moan aloud. Pain was an aphrodisiac in his veins right at that moment and the 'all glorious and powerful Soviet Union' was a full shot of heroin back into his bloodstream. It was like partying with Andy Warhol all over again.

"'So tell me, faggot," the larger nation's smile was practically broken glass against his face with its crookedness.He was pressing his knee almost uncomfortably and painfully in the American's crotch, making the other nation hiss in a breath before he could voice a reply. "You like lying on your back and taking it, yes?" 

America didn't know what he expected - although the punch that came to his face was ruled as a certainty. It hurt and he loved the sting it left behind, almost wanting more, but also wanting to return the favor. He waited a second for Russia to be too busy grinning to notice when America wrapped a leg around his thick waist and dragged him close enough to mingle their breaths. One fist was barely holding the Soviet nation's body up against the table and while America grinned with pearly white teeth, Russia scowled and his breath smelled heavily of the vodka he had been drinking all night.

He wasn't drunk but he sure as Hell wasn't sober either. 

"You will not drag me into your disgusting disease," the last two words was practically spat in the American's face but he barely cared. Only caring to grin and run his knuckles down the other's square jaw, thanking his lucky stars that he had never been pinned, before he delivered a solid punch to that one snaggletooth Russia had once used to complain about. The reaction was priceless and immediate, allowing America to switch their positions and sit atop the other's lap. 

"Just a few years before that new boss of yours," America smirked, rolling his hips down on the other, watching his face almost twist behind his facade. "You weren't sayin' that to me, you were beggin' for me to drop my pants and bend over baldie's desk-"

Russia grabbed his hair, so harshly and so suddenly, America was dragged forward and the motion rubbed them both in just the perfect way against their lower bodies. It was a rough kiss, hard and full of teeth, the American almost felt himself get drunk off of the high and the vodka still on Russia's breath. Then it was over; Russia had punched him in the face, there was blood on his lip and he was lying on the floor. He grinned up at the nation trying to regain his breath and spit out the 'taste of capitalism' on his tongue.

America licked his lips.   
The blood there tasted familiarly of his copper pennies but it lacked the amount of pain he was seeking.

"You disgust me," Russia had twisted his face, his oversized nose wrinkled up and it was almost comical how childish he looked with his mused hair and slight flushed cheeks. "To think the world believes you are any threat or competition to me."

The American nation smirked, sitting up slowly and straightening his white collar, "They know what I can do."

Russia eyed him steadily, hearing the unsaid words and underlying threat: 'They know what I can do to them if they cross me.'

'They' also including the Soviet Union and his precious satellite States.

"Get out of my house," Russia snapped.

America scoffed, retrieving his coat calmly and holding the other's gaze without the slightest hesitation or fear. He put it on slowly, readjusting his tie even slower and made the larger nation have no chance but to watch him. Russia didn't seem disgusted - or at least, the growing hardness between his legs wasn't disgusted by the American's previous actions. It almost seemed like they might be reciprocated. 

When he left, he felt his smirk grow when he heard and felt the slight thump of the glass china that Russia threw at the closed door. He walked through the main hall, nodded to the servant and lower state not allowed to sit at the dinner table, abashedly walking with the semi-obvious arousal in the front of his pants. He let himself out, walked to his car and let the frigid winds hit him full force. He gritted his teeth as he trudged to his 'borrowed' car, glad he had chosen to get a hotel in the capital rather than request a room in the nation's mansion. 

Sitting inside and protected from most of the cold, he watched his breath puff out in front of his glasses and steam begin to collect over his vision. He removed the frames to wipe the steam away, already wishing he could get some relief for himself - he refused to let the cold kill his erection and possibly him for a time in the process. 

He let out a breath he hadn't even realized he was still holding in his chest, sighing and then starting the car. He wouldn't be able to find satisfaction in using someone from the streets, that and he was difficult to please with his sick desire of being dominated. He was a superpower and needed someone either equal or close to his level to actually get a worthy enough release out of him. He sighed again, pulling out of the driveway already shoveled out for him despite the oncoming snowstorm and pulling out the main way into the street on the hour long journey to his rented room.

In his rearview mirror, he thought he caught the sight of someone in the front window and smirked.

He would be almost content in being miserably finished with his hand if he thought the communist bastard trying to be sneaky had to, as well.  
More than content, he would be fucking tickled pink. 


	7. Just a Dollop of Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred was crushing on an instagram blog, not just because the food made his mouth water but the hottie in charge of it was making everything by scratch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #7: Pairing Order: neutral RusAme / Rating: K+ / Prompt: Food Instagram x Chemistry Student / WARNING: food descriptions and crushing (one-sided).

> "Another treat for you all!" The caption said, "So many of you requested another strawberry-fixated treat and I could not resist! The details are listed below, Enjoy!" 

The little notification had gone off on Alfred's phone in his chemistry lab and while usually he was the 'good student,' he excused himself from his group mates to 'go to the bathroom.' He only had like two specific blogs to be on his post notifications, one of them was a food blog and the other was his mother. The only reason the second was even a option was to appease her by liking her photos and commenting "looking good(:" every now and again when he hadn't called home in like a week. 

But in the hallway, out of sight of his science class, the college student found his heart fluttering just a bit in his chest. He quickly liked the photo: a bowl of thick pink substance, an "acai bowl," said to be blended from strawberries, raspberries and bananas. Vegan and gluten-free. There was sprinkles of granola and some kind of dairy-free cream atop the entire creation. Beside the bowl was banana bread, honey in a small cup and then a mango-strawberry smoothie for drink. It looked delicious -

His phone dinged again.   
Same blog. 

The moderator of the instagram cuisine blog had posted a selfie. The genderqueer culinary artist was named Ivan. He had a degree from NYU and he had eyeliner straighter than Alfred's GPA increase. He wore handwoven scarfs and cashmere sweaters, he had swept pale hair like a god meant for hipsters and he liked to bury himself in covers but leave out his nose and say he was becoming " the first widely renowned vegan shark like he always dreamed." 

He was the epitome of Alfred's affections but Ivan had more than 600 thousand subscribers and it was very likely that he would never notice Alfred.  
And the chemistry student had accepted that.  
Mostly.

Going back to class after adoring the blogger's face for a minute longer, the student rejoined his lab group and settled back into the experiment. 

A few minutes before the end of class, his phone dinged twice. 

One was a new follow: _moscowinter is now following you!_

The second was a message notification on Instagram.

> moscowinter: Hello! Thank you for always being a constant supporter on my dishes! You're very sweet, love and best wishes. -Ivan.

Fuck the experiment, even if it blew up, Alfred's whole life had been made. 


	8. Bandaging the Bullet Wounds, pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kisses don't need a translator but sometimes the feelings behind them could use a few clear subtitles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #8: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: Mature / Prompt: Civil War Era / WARNING: Wartime conditions, internalised homophobia, language barriers and partially deaf character. Unrequited/onesided romance. Referenced pedophilia. Major character death.

Alfred was sitting underneath the tree, hand pressing hard into his side. Blood spilled through his fingers and made him curse, but he was breathing heavy and he needed a medic. Oh wait, he had shot the medic. Oh yeah, the dirty bastard had been caught with one of the drummer boys, damned sick pervert. Poor drummer boy had been half-dead at that to make matters worse. Now their unit was short of their only drummer and anyone with any medical training. 

The Confederate soldier knocked his head against the hard trunk of the tree. He had been shot, he had among the first of his unit to make a rather humiliating retreat and to top everything off - he had no clue where he was hiding out now. The forest was too dense, trees and underbrush every way he looked. He couldn't even hear for a river. His glasses had a crack down one of the lenses, his supply pack had been cast aside to knock a Yank aside during a struggle, but amid said struggle, he had been shot by a pistol. He almost regretting shooting the man back, but he had at least killed him on the spot, the other soldier had not been able to aim for shot. It had taken him three good bullets to waste for him to make one mark.

Alfred regretfully realized that the man he had shot had probably no more than fifteen. Only a few years younger than him and already involved in a war that had very well cut his life too short. The blond almost prayed for the boy's mother, she was bound to be devastated. But then again, Alfred's own mother had not wanted her only son and his father's sole heir to the plantation going off to war either. But someone had to. Alfred refused to let the South's name be dragged by some northerners who didn't understand. It was not just about the life of some black men on a piece of land, it was about local sovereignty. Something the northern states always seemed to 'forget' the southern states wanted.

But it was a moot point now, the tide had turned after Gettysburg and Alfred was lying in possibly enemy territory, on the losing side of the war. A tear escaped his eye, leaning his head back against the wood, sniffing once and then twice. He was probably going to die out in the woods. Never have those red evening tea conversations with his dear mother, those battles of literature and literary criticism with his father or have another competition in French fluency with his Canadian cousin. He would never have any of those things again.

Another sniffle escaped him. He was crying. Night was falling fast, he was feeling more faint by the second and he could hear the bay of coyotes. He would ripped apart by hungry animals clothed in blue uniforms or torn apart by furred beasts. Neither was an appealing option and he wept for his own pitiful fate. He didn't like crying but he saw himself dying alone in a forest he knew nothing about and with not even a priest to cure his soul of the many sins he had made since enlisting in this war over two summers ago.

He didn't remember losing feeling in the fingers pressing into his side, he just knew he fell asleep. Or maybe fell unconscious in that bitter November air, Virginia could be so cruel to her children. 

Alfred awoke surprisingly warm, that was the first thing he noticed. The next was how much better he felt - he felt cleaner, much less grimy, and his bullet wound barely itched underneath the cloth wrapped so tightly about his abdomen. Opening his eyes was hard in the dim lantern but he could make out a silhouette sitting vigilant against the crack of moonlight coming through the barn door. A bayonet was held so tight in their white-knuckled grip but the Confederate soldier questioned why he was still alive. He saw no gray uniform, no Confederate insignia, he could have been held hostage by the enemy and he felt his throat tighten.

Unknowingly, he swallowed too loudly, a terrible habit from his father, and he found a single violet eye trained on him. Only one violet eye, the other was barely the color of milk, blinder than the old stray cat Alfred recalled from his schoolboy years. He decided to chance himself, "W-who are you?"

Silence.

Then the silhouette made a quick check outside before coming more towards the light. It was man, no more than twenty nine at most, twenty at least, clean-shaven with remnants of pox scars. An old scar ran across the very corner of his lip, shiny and possibly over a decade old. The man put a hand to Alfred's forehead, trying to check the Confederate soldier's temperature, but Alfred shook him off and slapped his hand aside. "Answer me," he demanded. "Why did you 'rescue' me? Who are you? _Where_ am I?"

The man paused, staring at him again, before answering in a deep, gruff voice, " _I cannot understand you. But know that you are safe_."

Alfred frowned, he had no idea as to what the man said but it didn't seem...threatening?

He wasn't completely sure of his safety but it did not look like he would die tonight or in a night very soon. 

At least he hoped.

:::

Alfred never learned the man's name, but called him 'Sauveur,' the French word for 'Savior.' 

Maybe the man knew French, but he smiled ever so slightly every time Alfred called him that.

It was... nice to be on the receiving end of that smile. The man's entire face seemed to soften, regress back years of hard labor, aging and stress to become the youthful man he might have once been. When he smiled, it was either a small quirk of his lips or a grin practically big enough to split his face in two and turn his eyes to almost thin slits. He became beautiful and every day Alfred remained in that barn, he knew he felt his heart became just that much heavy in his chest. The sin of homosexuality hung in his mind heavily, but his heart would clench around the idea of denying his feelings, his mind torn in the faith he had been raised and born into and how it condemned the path he was choosing to take.

Maybe choice was too strong a word? If the soldier had a choice, he would throw the feelings over his shoulder, then he would run off - wound and all - and never look back. He couldn't do that, he wouldn't do that and he didn't think he would even forgive himself for not at least saying goodbye.

He wrote farewell letters in his mind every night before he went to sleep, his Savior always standing watch at night by the door. He would awake with 'good morning, Sauveur' already on his lips to the man stirring grits in an old pot and with a single smile, he would forget any plan of abandoning the other. Even if the grits lacked any butter or sugar, knowing it was prepared and shared between the pair made them taste better than any professional meal he had ever had and his belly felt warmer than it had in the years since he had left his parents' porch on the plantation.

In a month, he had already comprised an emotional recital of a particular love poem he could remember having studied before, but the day he had been about to say it, there was a gunshot in the distance. Barely an hour after breakfast, Alfred felt his blood run cold in his veins. Time stood still in the barn. Hay was suddenly too prickly and sticking far too uncomfortably into his skin, sweat a chilling presence down his spine. His heartbeat thudded in his ears as the violet-eyed man stood silently, almost ghostlike, and crept to the cracked door. He peered out, surveying the landscape and Alfred held his breath. 

Alfred was in no condition, stretching wrong brought out pain in his side, somewhere the remnants of the bullet pulling apart his insides even as his skin tried to sew itself together. To distract himself, the young blond took notice of the man's features to keep from panicking. Pale hair, a few freckles spilling over his large nose, a male above his left eyebrow, barely visible underneath his long bangs. He needed a haircut and another shave soon. He was built similar to a bear, wide in the shoulders, thick in his middle with legs practically mobile tree trunks attached to his feet. The man was the spitting image of a woodsman, muscle and all, and it made something deep in the soldier's belly warm.

Slight color came to his face but drained quickly when the man aimed his gun. A shot rang out, this time from their end, and then the man seemed to wait. Another shot. Then, he was dashing over to Alfred, pushing him into the haystack, climbing atop of him, burying them in the yellow straw, and putting a finger between their lips. Their breath mingled and their lungs shared air in the cramped space. Alfred made himself count to ten in French, down in German, up in English and then down again in Spanish. He tried repeating the process until his heartbeat was a deafening roar in his ears and he didn't feel like his face was going to explode. 

Minutes passed but it could have been hours for all that the Confederate soldier knew.

Then, the man was creeping out, pushing Alfred gently on his collar to keep down, while he checked to make sure it was safe. 

A shot rang out.

Alfred's heart thudded in his chest.

Another shot.

A third.

Fourth.

There was a slow thump to the ground and Alfred felt himself trembling.

A moment later, there was voices and Alfred thought he recognized someone.

"A-Adam?" He whispered and there was a hush. Footsteps rushed towards his hiding place, hay was thrown aside and then his childhood friend and fellow soldier was beaming at him. 

"Alfred! We found you! Oh bless the heaven, we thought you'd be cannibalized out in the snow!" Adam said, his smile was almost contagious - but then the smell of blood caught Alfred's nose. It was so alien and yet familiar to him. His eyes followed where his nose pointed out the source, Adam's ramblings tuned out, as Alfred's eyes widened and his breath caught in his throat. His Savior laid facedown in a pool of his own blood, his blind eye looking out at nothing, mouth open and bleeding onto the dirt floor. 

Heat built up behind Alfred's eyes but he held back emotions, held back his breakdown, and held back anything that would have gave himself away.

When his comrades helped him up and out of the barn, into a coat stolen off his Sauveur's back, and onto a horse behind Adam, he wished the wintry air numbed more than just his fingertips. Numb his entire being, he prayed, hoping the heavens hadn't given up on him. He would repent, repent and swear himself good by the Lord's will - if only to rid the image of the very man he knew himself to have fallen in love lying in a pool of his own blood.


	9. Bullet on the Dotted Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred would point a gun in his mouth and fire if Ivan so much as blinked for the signal. He'd sign any dotted line for his own execution, his life didn't mean anything if it wasn't aligned for the will of the Iron Bragniski.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #9: Pairing Order: RusxAme / Rating: T+ / Prompt: Bratva AU / WARNING: Unrequited romance, implied character death.

> "Just die already, Jones," a familiar voice said above him. Blood sputtering from his lips, the gunned down blond looked up at the man who he had given everything up and everything for - Ivan, the man of his entire affections and loyalty, had betrayed.
> 
> This was a pesticide mission and he was the pest.
> 
> He was the pest.
> 
> Ivan had set him up for extermination as a "pest" and he was going to die.

If someone had told Alfred that he’d be living under Bratva, the ex-president's son would have laughed at you. If someone had said that he’d be the favorite hitman of their Boss, he’d had laughed harder.  If you had said that he would fallen in love with the very same man who had kidnapped him and shot a hole bigger than his old tiny phone through his mother’s head, well –

He might have shot you too. With his BB gun, mind you, that old Alfred F. Jones had hated guns, just like his father, he had been "a very proud and liberal Democrat."

Now though, he knew all twenty eight of his assault rifles like the back of his hand. He could pick up a knife like no other, twirl it in his fingers like it was some simple harmless object and not the deadly weapon for what it truly was, oh no. Alfred was a killer now and he very well knew it too. Everyone knew it - and if they didn't? They would learn about him and his bloody signatures very quickly.

This Alfred F. Jones would shoot a man and his family without even blinking, in less than the time it would have taken "his seemingly cold heart to pump more blood through his horrid veins," before he would leave the scene of his crime – or at least, out of the immediate vicinity of the fire he’d expertly set to make sure that evidence was never found of him.

Couldn’t have America’s old Golden Boy going into police data books for numerous counts of murder, arson and everything that he had done since he had taken at age of sixteen.

“Jones.”

Alfred looked up from polishing his gun from across the room.  He gave a sweet smile to the large man sitting behind his desk. It was the man who had stolen both his life and heart, Ivan Bragniski. A bear of a killer, eyes like violet ice, and words like smooth boulders; Alfred loved every part of what made Ivan himself, he’d die for him and he was sure that the other knew it. Everyone knew it. Alfred wasn’t very subtle in his romances. But Ivan was notoriously straight, he’d take a bullet to his own dick before he’d let Alfred into his bed (to "sleep"). Alfred knew it.

But he had been known to be very optimistic in his 'old' life.

“What can I do for ya, babe?” Alfred asked, strapping the rifle back to his back. He was already standing up, striding over, a wide grin already stretching his face as he sat himself on the edge of the other’s desk. There were three goons over by the door, keeping watch, but he knew that he could take down all three in less time than it would take the quickest one of them to reach their holsters. He knew Ivan knew it too; that was why he was getting away with this little disrespect. Anyone else would have gotten a bullet to the face a long time ago.

“I need you to go do a job for me,” Ivan began, reading over some paper or another, shrugging. “Some idiot seems to think that the Italians will protect him forever, I want to remind him that the Italiano Mafioso is gone and has been gone for a long time.”

Alfred grinned, a bit of pride coming from the Russian’s words. The hitman had taken out the Italian Mafia as a birthday present for the older, even bringing back Feliciano’s head as a souvenir. It hadn’t been an easy job but he had done it. It wasn't an easy job, it had taken a couple of hours to go in, shoot, and then several more to clean up his mess. The American would have liked for anyone to have topped that birthday, the look on Ivan’s face was priceless.

“Gotcha,” Alfred nodded. “Want me to rough ‘em up a bit?”

Ivan shrugged. “Do what you want, I don’t care, just send a loud message of the threat we pose, Jones.” He handed him a neatly folded piece of information. “Dismissed.”

Hopping off the desk, the blond hummed a slight tune to himself before he pushed one goon to the floor, daring him to look him in the eye, before he opened the door and walked out. He took the long way to his room, formulating a plan in his mind as he tried to gather what he would need. He grabbed his tool belt, he never went anywhere without that handy. He clipped on a few grenades and smoke bombs to his rifle strap. Lastly, he thought to grab a few new knives and stuff them in his boots. He was getting ready to slip his night vision goggles over his head when he heard a knock at his door.

Raising a brow, Alfred ignored it for a minute and when it persisted, he opened the door to find a sight. Natalya: she was an adopted child of Ivan’s Bratva and one of his best swordsman and his infamous “Whippet.” She chased down prey, executed it properly and then came back home to reclaim her prize with her earned kill. Ivan tended to adore her from afar, shoving distance as she grew up so his favoritism was less obvious.

Needless to say that Alfred and the young girl didn’t much get along.

“Heard you were going on a mission to scare the old pasta makers,” she said, pushing him aside and he let her walk in and turn a small circle in his room. He didn’t have any pictures of himself on the walls, only newspaper clippings of his deeds. His bed was decent, big enough for him with space for one more, and the covers were clean. His drawers were minimal but Alfred didn’t wear much besides his black uniform. His bulletproof vests and guards – things that he was putting on since it looked like the young girl was biding her time - were things he kept in his closet. "Too big to keep in a drawer," he had told someone once.

Alfred grunted, hefting the heavy vest onto his build, securing it to his shoulders and waist, “Yea, what about it?”

“You’re not gonna make it back,” Natalya said, looking at one clipping on the wall. Alfred frowned at her, fingers flexing but he couldn’t touch her. Ivan would notice her missing at the dinner table and he would be pissed.  Instead, he looked at the article she was reading.

Oh, that was when he had taken out the Vice President, which had been recent. All it took was jacking the plane and then getting his target.

Too bad that the guy had kids. They had had to see their precious father get his brains busted over an flight attendant – said flight attendant already splayed on the ground, a gushing wound from her chin where he had shot her at close range. She had been too nosy and far too flirty for Alfred’s liking. It was one thing to compliment a grown man, it was another to avoid his personal space and flirt.

“What makes you say that?” the American asked, narrowing his eyes, and checking his shoulder guard. Yup, he was covered in defense and he had plenty of rounds on him.

“…Ivan gave you a pesticide problem,” she replied. “He knows you might die on this mission.”

Something about the way she bit her lip and went back to reading about his deeds in newspaper articles made him uneasy. “Natalya?”

“I know he’s trying to get rid of you,” she said harshly. She spun on her booted heel, white skirt billowing out around her. She was storming up to him and he was standing stock still. He would not hit her. Even if it looked like she was going to do it to him. “And you know it too. You’re letting him!”

He stayed quiet, looked straight ahead, and simply admired how one reporter wrote on how he had slaughtered an official in Pakistan. That had been a fun adventure. The heat had been something awful, though, he had come home with a tan.

“He’s throwing you away and you’re going to just…just die for him?” Natalya’s voice had cracked. The older spared a glance at him. She looked like she wanted to cry but knew better. He sighed. She was a good kid but she had much to learn. He knew what he was doing. He wasn’t going to die. Not until Ivan specifically told him to put a gun in his mouth and fire.

“I know what I’m doing,” he said evenly, taking her shoulders into his hands and easing her back a step. She had been on the verge of invading his bubble and earning a bullet in her foot. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I have to worry about you,” she tried to reason. “If I don’t, no one else will.”

“I don’t need you to worry about me,” he reasoned back. “Now get out of my way, I have a deadline to meet.”

She scoffed, “Yea, that’s when he expects a body-“

“Will you just stop it!” Alfred snapped at her. She went stock still, hand at her hip where a blade was probably within reach, but she hadn't thrown it through his skull. She was listening.

So Alfred continued,  “Just- just stop, alright? I’m not gonna die.” He didn’t see why she cared. She had shown any interest in any other dangerous missions that he’d go on before. That VP one had been pretty high profile and she hadn’t even batted an eye when word got around that he was leaving. So why was she being all snappy now?

Was there really something wrong with this mission?

No.

There couldn’t be. Ivan had given him this mission personally. He had called him to his office and told him. He had given him the address on the paper. He wasn’t leading Alfred to a trap – he was leading him to a mission to once again prove his worth. Make sure that the blond wasn’t soft, yea, it was just a means to gauge his strength.

.

The mission wasn't going well. 

The tires on his bike had been shot through by machine gun fire. His shoulder was compromised and the glass over his helmet was shattered. He was still alive, no surprise, and very much pissed. He had a new idea to 'punish' those pasta-makers when he got his hands on them. That was a nice fuckin' bike. Ivan gave them that bike just maybe a year ago. That bike was personal and even more totaled.

So instead of riding into the warehouse like a badass, he was going to have to sneak it without any dramatic effect.

Ah well, he could still get the upper hand.

.

The mission went even worse.

He was outnumbered beyond his skill level. He thought about calling for backup, tried and got his hand shot at and his nice smartphone had a hole in the screen.

Perfect.

.

Reinforcements arrived!

.

Combined with his leadership, he and reinforcements eradicated the enemy, 

It was a perfect decimation-

-and then someone cracked him over the head with a metal pipe. Alfred almost went down on his knees, grunting, and then he was hit a second time. 

"He's a stupid egg to crack, no wonder Boss wanted him gone," someone said.

"What...?" Alfred meant to demand, but then someone kicked him onto his hands and knees. 

He barely had time to look up before he was being given a hard punch to the face, Bratva ring and all.

.

Ivan was still standing above him, gun still at the ready and eyes colder than at anyone he had ever seen. But the words - the words Ivan had said stuck with him. Stung him. No. It didn't so much as sting, so much as feel worse than the seven bullets littering his chest. Where had his bulletproof vest gone? Had it been compromised? How had he not even known?

"You're still not dead yet?" Ivan snapped, a heavy booted foot stopped on the gunned hitman's chest. One stomp turned into three to five to nearly seven. The Russian Boss just kept stomping on his chest, blood filling up the beaten blond's lungs and bringing tears to his bruised face. Burnt and bruised; he had taken a beating - jumped by the Bratva. More than twenty grown men had jumped him initially and then just come in to take turns in beating him senseless. 

Ivan had been the one to put the first bullet in him.  
Then the next six.

"When will you finally learn you were a mistake," Ivan spat. If the ex-Golden Boy's heart hadn't already been shot by a bullet, then it had been blown to bits by the Russian's words. Alfred felt his lips quirk, unable to say a thing amidst the blood filling his mouth and slowly drowning out his voice, life with it. "You were never supposed to stay this long. Just a stupid boy who grew up to be an even stupider man. Fuckin' _faggot_."

With a solid kick to the face, Alfred was rolled from on his back to being face down in gritty, blood splattered concrete. A final tear escaped him, his remaining arm weak and broken and finished, and finally, there was the familiar sounds of a revolver being reloaded. Alfred wished he was already dead, he didn't know how he was still alive at this point. Maybe God really did exist and hated his guts after everything he did. This was his punishment.

Right before Ivan made the fatal headshot, Alfred found it ironic that the very man he would die for was going to kill him. 

Did that make it a little better or horribly worse?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to val cos she was having a bad day, I hope this made you feel better ;w;


	10. Table for Two (in Hell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivan had made two great mistakes in his life: killing his lover and then making a deal with the devil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #10: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: Mature / Prompt: Cannibalism and torture / WARNING: Cannibalism (obvs), dubconsensual cannibalism. Minor torture play, implied reference to demon summoning and implied character death(s).

> "Open wide, dear," purred the devil wrapped up in a shiny new suit. His pretty blue eyes glittered, smile shined whiter and much brighter than any man's future and his skin was flawless in nearly every way. The only singular character of his true nature lay in his fingers - bloody and gore crowded underneath his nails. Bits of entrails hung onto his skin, making odd noises when his elbow moved against the drenched tabletop.

Ivan held fast, holding back the bile in his throat, trying to breathe through his broken nose. One eye was nearly swollen shut, the other staring back at him on Alfred's fork. He wanted to feel disgusted. Horrified. Downright angry - but he couldn't, he couldn't help but to feel the arousal burning deep in his loins. He wanted to take his own eyeball, to suck on the leftover blood and fluids, before he slowly chewed it over, making eye contact with the other as he swallowed it. Maybe lick his lips for extra measure. It was a sickening realization, to know that he was playing right into the other's hands. He would always be putty. 

Or maybe just another eyeball to chew over and swallow like gummy candy. 

The uncontrollable shiver that ran down Ivan's spine as the devil swirled his pink tongue over the fork, taking the organ off of it in a single swipe of the slick muscle, and then just slowly... slowly chewing it over. As if the disgusting act was the most delicious thing he had ever done. His face was one of complete pleasure. It was almost sickening and Ivan swore he felt his hips almost start to lurch up before he caught himself.

It was downright sinful, how the devil crossed his legs, waist looking nice and prim underneath tailored cloth, and his shiny dress shoes complimented his blond hair. He lacked his lover's previous freckles but the devil's had somehow retained the boy's youthful complexion and half-Native American heritage. His features still held underneath the blond gelled back style that was nothing like his careless, childish lover. Alfred had been nothing short of a bedhead every day and to see his another face with his features was unnerving-

-and also sinfully alluring.

Sin. Sin. Sin. This was all sin, Ivan told himself. He had bargained with the devil for Alfred's life after he had made a horrible mistake and now he was facing the consequences. The devil in his lover's skin, feeding him his own organs bit by bit, and twisting a boy that had been no more than a nineteen virgin into superheroes and astrophysics into a borderline sculpted sex god with an appetite for human flesh. It sounded unreal, almost like the plot of a terrible movie to Ivan, but this was real. It was real and it was happening to him, and the very thought put another shudder through him as the devil gently thumbed his mouth, cooing, as he spooned something into Ivan's mouth.

It was lukewarm, smooth on his tongue, and very slimy. Ivan almost wanted to spit it out, feeling the bile rise back up as his erection strained against his pants, the cuts across his chest and the slits over his wrists all strained as his blood pressure increased and his breath grew quick. He felt faint as he tried to move his heavy jaw and chew what was placed in his mouth.

He could barely see now, darkness growing around his vision, as long fingers fanned out over his chest, tugging playfully at the hair there and moving on to palm the muscle underneath a thick layer of childhood fat. The touch burned, not just because the devil's hellfire was barely contained under the skin, but because it was wrong. It was so wrong. It was a sin. It was a sin too feel these sorts of ways for the very same being that was going to devour his soul. But he couldn't help himself, shuddering one last time before everything went black in a quick burst of pleasure and pain.

"The key to a man's heart was always through his stomach," the devil purred in Ivan's ear, teeth nicking on the earlobe and then pressing a quick kiss at Ivan's dead pulse. His palm cradled the heart of his most recent victim, smirking down at it before he took a savage bite right out of it, the blood dripping messily down his chin. He moaned into the mouthful, pulling away with little veins and remnants of tissue on his chin. "Such a dark heart," he breathed. He licked his lips, suddenly throwing his arms out and bursting out laughing as the fork landed somewhere in the floor. 

The devil grabbed Ivan's face with only the tips of his nails, cooing and shushing the corpse, chuckling between 'soothingly' words. His grin was bloody and horrifying in every way, " _Memento mori_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whelps im back and procrastinating agst russian hwk


	11. Cursed from Freedom, Abandoned by Captivity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You cannot tame a Wolf. No matter how much you may try, the Wolf would rather tear out its own throat than be within Man's fence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #11: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: Mature / Prompt: WildChild verse, at least my spin of the AU. / WARNING: Contains some minor violence, references to past physical and psychological torture. References of self-sacrifice in a ritualistic setting and implied sexual abuse.

 

> "You don't have to do this," Alfred was barely able to speak, one eye swollen past sight with his lip busted and bleeding.
> 
> It was only a mass of dirty and shapeless furs - and yet the mask it bore over where its face should have been was more nightmare worthy than any of the bloodied and 'fresh' skinned furs on the figure's back. A mask worthy of nightmares for years and decades to come, eyes black and depthless. Blood and tiny pinpricks of holes riddled the mask, streaks of unknown substances, there was no fingerprint pattern to the streaks, possibly patted down by leaves, two tiny slits for a nose underneath an exaggerated protruding snout for a nose - and yet, the most unnerving part of the mask was the mouth. Teeth. Authentic, bloody teeth. Various creatures, various sizes and shapes. Crammed into a tight space of the mask's angry snarl. The teeth looked like they were meant for tearing flesh apart. 
> 
> Alfred didn't want to be the next victim. 
> 
> The figure came closer, lumbering along, a long machete dragging lines through the dirt as his eyes seemed to lose focus - concentration and attention on some far off plane. The teen tried to crawl backwards, broken leg protesting the movement as tears burned his eyes. He was more than afraid of death, he was terrified of the very thought of dying alone. 
> 
> Dying by this creature's hands was worse than death.   
>  He would never be seen again and he knew it.

The wildchild woke with a start on the forest floor. Instinctively, he had gone into a fighting crouch, teeth bared and claws digging into the soil for purchase. Feral eyes scanned the space in his tree. He saw nothing, blue light flickering from his hands and his palms were bathed in the cold glow of his magic. His eyes would be glowing right now, if anyone else had been watching, the wildchild had no reflection now and wasn't allowed to indulge in that sort of vanity. No shadow, no reflection and no footprints - no visual or physical memories or remnants of his existence.

The wildchild didn't need to breathe and he didn't. The night air was only alive with the sounds of crickets and the nocturnal residents and their predators. Nothing that was a threat to him. Or at least, nothing that was a threat to him anymore. The wildchild laid back on the stolen fur coat made into a makeshift bedding. Its previous owner was buried beneath the tree - the sockets of his eyes replaced by the green gems he so loved to admire. Unfortunately for the pirate, however, the wildchild had taken a modification to his corpse beyond his bejeweled eyes. Where the pirate's crouch had once been the man's prized 'ego' was now heavily adorned by the wildchild's claw marks and old fang wounds. It had been seen as a perfect revenge for the blurred hours beneath the sorry excuse of a man, tear apart the man's ego while he was still alive and make him suffer for all of the wrong-

The wildchild growled at the memory, his form curling more protectively over himself, his anxiety causing a distinct spiced scent in the air as the magic that both cursed and blessed him with immortal life swirled over his limbs in almost soothing gestures. Breathing was forced to slow, limbs growing heavy under an even more forced unconscious state as the magic put the wildchild to sleep. ' _Sleep_ ,' it encouraged. ' _We are One, We are here and We will protect Us_."

The wildchild didn't want protection.  
He envied the pirate's corpse for some hundredth night in a row.

Death would be a welcome freedom.

:::

"Hello?" The pale teen approached the forest clearing where the wildchild was stirring a fire. A new knife was being heated for the ceremony, another blood sacrifice to pacify and thank the spirits that afforded him an almost believable sense of free will. The fire popped but the wildchild did not flinch, the burns never hurt for long, pain never seemed to stay long at all. Despite the numerous scars of past hunters and beasts alike, none pained him; not a phantom nor a physical nerve to be bothered by the marred flesh. His feet were almost black at their soles, maybe from walking barefoot in the dirt, maybe from burns, maybe from a form of jungle rot that could never seem to kill him and be done with the matter-

"-rought you another bag of candy. Seemed like you enjoyed it last time," the pale teen was speaking again. The wildchild barely understood, only picking up bits and pieces of the language he had once spoke in some life long ago. He gave a short nod, the teen sitting some few feet away, hands going into his messenger bag and retrieving the package of 'Swedish Fish.' The package showed only the red fish, the teen had remembered his preference. The bag was set on the ground, never handed to the wildchild directly, not after the first time. The time that still left an ugly burn over the pale teen's right hand. Ugly and gnarled, an eyesore, just like how the wildchild envisioned himself to look like-

"-ey. Are you alright? H-hey, you're scaring me-"

The teen was usually so patient with him, speaking so softly and sweetly as if the wildchild wasn't a force and hell to be reckoned with, if not feared upon mere sight. Why the teen came back to the forest was no mystery; his mother was seldom home and the boy's father was dead, he was unwelcome among his peers at school, not for any seemingly trivial reason, just that the teen was awkward and preferred to listen than talk. Making friends was difficult when one preferred silence over actual talking.

Maybe that was another reason why the teen came around, there was no expectation to speak or present himself in some light within the forest. No expectation of honor roll or academic success,  no mention or relevance to his standing in the outside world; only silence and enjoying a presence. Or rather, several presences - the wildchild was a host for the spirits, many of which would love nothing more than to see the pale teen painted red with his own blood-

"-alm down, you're scaring me, please stop!"

The horrid cry of 'stop' made the wildchild freeze. He knew the word too well, his familiarity with the word bringing back sickening memories of blood, various bruises and white streaks on this thighs-

The wildchild set the ritual knife down, having forgotten that he was still holding it, crawling away from the pale teen on all fours much like a feral animal. The boy was cradling his hand to his chest, blood falling down in rivulets, his violet eyes wide and his pale skin even more white with terror. He had a ritualistic mark underneath his eye, something for 'pet' and 'keep' - nothing to harm him, only to keep him alive should the sacrifice be rejected by the forest.

The wildchild reheated the knife, speaking in a guttural tongue of ancient languages older beyond his and the pale teen's lifetimes combined. He slit his wrists, carving symbols and crude letterings up his arms, watching the blood drip into the soil and blacken it on sight. This left what drops fell into the fire to create an almost surreal reaction in the element, the blood made the fire shudder and curl around his dripping fingers, licking up scarred and marred flesh like it was precious and worthy of devotion. But the fire didn't burn him, it was barely noticed, as the last words were spoken and the fire suddenly vanished from sight, taking the blood that the wildchild had spilled for it.

The wildchild turned back to the teen, familiar gouges in his burnt hand, breathing still heavy and eyes wide. 

The pale teen was now protected from any harm of the forest, the wildchild had heard their voices and he knew what they had wanted to do to him. He was undeserving of their torture, no one would suffer alongside him, eternal loneliness was better than forced company in this form of hell.

Standing up was eerily fluid, bones always shifting underneath the skin, never quite settling down and seldom retaining any kind of human appearance under the black leather the wildchild sported. The teen was breathing more hurriedly now, trying to cower and back up in a frenzied fashion, hands shuffling over things to shove into the teen's bag. The wildchild watched everything, feeling a twinge of something as the teen was barely holding himself together to bolt and run as far away from the forest as he could.

Three months of near constant interaction: now gone.

A cool puff of air on the scarred flesh reminded the wildchild of the spirits trying to console him, frigid and unearthly grips on his arms and legs and all over him to soothe and pet him like some adorned pet. Hearing a crinkle underneath his bare feet, the wildchild looked down and saw a familiar package. He picked up the forgotten candies where black blood in the form of a palm was on the front of the package. A palm meant an acceptance; the boy would be spared from any malicious intention of the forest. If he ever came back, that was; it was a wasted ritual, the boy was hardly likely to come back after witnessing that spectacle. 

The package was thrown to the ground and immediately set aflame as the wildchild finally let the voices in his head and the cool caresses of his captors restrain him, muscles forcibly relaxed and breathing steadied to its usual nonexistent pace. He was back to being the empty, dead-resemblant shell that the forest loved.

The wildchild wished that he could die just once more, like when the original ritual had been forced upon his young form- he just wanted remember what it was like to be alive, recall his erratic heartbeat and heavy breathing just like the pale teen had done. He envied both the living and the dead for he was neither.

::

The only way out of this hell was death and immortality was an overprotective mother in every attempt.


	12. Down Below the Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, a man needs a God to tell him what to do when his life is in ruins at his feet. Sometimes, that very same man just needs to finish his whiskey and go to bed. Other times, he needs to empty a pistol clip into some bastard’s face to get his point across. Maybe he just needs a listening ear and an outreached hand…yeah right. Rapture didn’t have any sane souls left to steal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #12: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: Teen / Prompt: BioHeta verse, based off an RP with imakemywings. / WARNING: Contains referenced infidelity, alcoholism, murder, drug abuse and some serious depression. Unrequited love affair(s) and implied sex.

> "A Man _chooses_. A Slave _obeys_." - Andrew Ryan, founder of Rapture. 

A lone man held a cigarette tightly in his teeth, one hand lighting itself to bring a red fingertip to his lips before the man inhaled deeply and then sighed. Light smoke wisped around his hair, pulling at blond strands before dissipating away. The man looked out at the flowering ruins, thinking to himself and wondering if the guy he had called would show up.

Maybe.   
ADAM was liquid gold down here and some men get a kick out of playing vulnerable.

A few minutes passed and the lone man sighed, inhaling another drag from his cigarette and then checking his ammunition. He heard movement and had a pistol pointed before they had a chance to blink. A childlike shriek and his eyes narrowed. He turned on his heel fully to get a better look at his victim, pushing aside some green leaves to find a Little Sister curling in on herself. Her ankle bled, slowly healing. She looked up at him with big yellow eyes, pleading for mercy.

The man grinned, blue eyes dancing with a light not unlike a monster.

:::

“I know you did it! Do not lie to me,” a woman yelled over a two way radio. The man lit a cigarette with his finger as she kept shouting. He wasn’t paying much attention; he was too busy watching a live feed of some splicers fight for the Little Sister he had thrown over a balcony. She was trying to run away – oh wait, she tripped. He scoffed at the live feed as she was practically ambushed, five splicers at least.

“Do not ignore me, Jones!”

The man in question growled, “Ah, shut it, hag. You got plenty more, one little brat isn’t gonna do no harm.” He took another drag of his cigarette, going back to watching the live feed. Hmph. The splicers almost looked like they were taking turns with stealing her ADAM. How sweet. He quickly memorized their masks and faces, anything distinct about them, and made a note to kill them all later. Now that they were “fed,” they could put up a fight.

He grinned.

:::

He was leaning on a column, content with his kills as he stabbed them all with a Gatherer’s Needle. He neglected the pacifier, injecting each dosage directly to his bloodstream.

It didn’t even sting now and he didn’t know whether to be thankful or terrified.

He tried not to think about it.

:::

The man’s head bounced on the ground, chest heaving for breath beneath broken ribs, the last few thrills of electricity still going through his system as he forced himself to rise. He wiped the blood from his lip, still attempting to grin in the face of his worst enemy. It looked like Tenenbaum had told on him to “Papa” and he wasn’t happy that one of their precious babies hadn’t come home.

Too bad.

Teleporting to a safer location, the blond looked at his wounds. Not too bad this time. He would survive this fight, maybe not if he pissed off the Russian again this week, but probably by next week. Yes, next week sounded about like enough time for him to be better. He could wing that.

A loud crack sounded in the air.

The man froze. He knew that sound very well. Cursing quietly to himself, he tried to keep moving.

When Bragnisky was pissed, it was a bitch to shake him off of his trail.

:::

Crashing in his long established apartment in the better side of Rapture, the man threw himself face first into the mattress, inwardly glad he had stolen a better one from a few ones over. It was usually dangerous to sleep in Rapture, but he had set up plenty of turrets and even more traps. His hidey hole was guarded, not to mention he tended to be a light sleeper nowadays. ADAM did that to him, made him restless in his sleep, if not prone to for lack of better word, awful nightmares.

_Marie didn’t deserve that, I shoulda-_

He woke up with a start, heart thudding in his ears, sweating bullets as he took shaky breath one after the other. His eyes stung, face already streaked with old tears. He forced himself up, grunting with both the pain and effort needed to rise, checking the feeds from the turrets. All of them were fine, no one had come, and he was safe.

He sat back down on the bed, swallowing thickly. He blinked a few times, pushing old memories back down his throat. He saw the audio diary and a half bottle of whiskey by the bedside, clicking open the device for a new entry as he tossed a good swig of the bottle’s contents down his throat. “October 1961… It was the same dream. Two years later and she’s still the epitome of my fucking nightmares….”

:::

Lying low was hard.

Lying low and trying to avoid fights was harder.

Lying low, trying to avoid fights and trying to avoid Ivan was the hardest.

One would think such a large man would be slow, but no, when the Russian wanted something, he was very fast. Light on his feet too, usually, the man could pinpoint where someone was by their footsteps about a mile or so off. Enough time to get away or hide if running wasn’t an option. That wasn’t the case this time, not with an angry Russian on the loose, barely holding back a temper meant for a certain blond by the name of Alfred F. Jones.

Alfred sighed, rubbing his brow and smearing oils from the bolts that he had been working with. He just needed to fix this security bot and then he would be gone. Squelching footsteps sounded closer and the blond still wasn’t done. He forced his hands to move faster, cursing under his breath as time was slipping from between his fingers. He wasn’t going to have enough time. He bit his lip, sending a small thrill of electro-bolt through the security bot and snatching his bag of tools. He hoped the security bot would fare alright without him for a bit longer, he just wouldn’t have eyes on this side of Rapture.

He couldn’t take a fight with Bragnisky right now.

:::

Alfred came back later, fixing what he could call his sloppiest work yet, feeling satisfied with the pleasant beeping noises that told him a job well done. He smiled a bit, a bit of nostalgia coming over him. He liked working with his hands, part of why he had become an engineer, part of why he had come to Rapture and-

The man almost squeezed the wrench too hard, thinking of old memories. He had too many of those, a lot of them were bad. A lot of them were _his_ fault. Taking up his bag of tools once more, he teleported and left the area.

He needed a bottle of whiskey real bad right about then.

:::

Revenge sex _hurt_.

It hurt more when his old wounds reopened.

It hurt the most when Bragnisky left him there alone.

:::

Limping around his hidey hole, Alfred tried his new radio and fiddled with it until a song popped up. He had fixed the device up from the scraps he found, tuning and adjusting it in his spare time. It was a pastime of sorts, he was working on a clock right now in his armchair with his feet kicked up on a box, something to do while he was trying to calm. He needed to clear his head. He glanced out the window, looked down at all of the splicers running amok and pushing each other around.

Technically, he was one of them.

He was no better than a no name having mindless animal.

He scoffed. He could still say he was a damn good engineer, for lack of any other redeeming quality. Not like anyone would speak up for his morality anymore. He had lost that long ago, long before he began splicing too…

:::

The blond was scavenging for food in Arcadia when he heard them.

Little giggles.

One head popped out of the vent, scouting the area before giggling and jumping down. A second Little Sister jumped after her, then a third. Alfred hadn’t known they had a buddy system, must have been something new. Aw well. He readied a rifle he had found to fire, aligning it to aim when he heard the cock of a pistol behind him.

He didn’t even have to turn to know who it was.

“Don’t even try, Jones,” Bragnisky threatened. “No one can take a bullet to the back of the head at close range and live to tell about it. Not even you.”

Alfred tried to laugh, he barely felt better from their last encounter and he wouldn’t push his luck too much. “How do you know I won’t be the first, if I was not already?”

Ivan didn’t laugh back, only narrowed light eyes further, “Because I know you.”

That wasn’t the right thing to say and Alfred spun on his heel to snarl, “You don’t know jackshit about me.”

He Russian didn’t even flinch, pushing the shorter aside, as he walked past him. No emotion, no reaction, not even a glance. Alfred must have zoned out for a second, because he felt a quick touch of cold on his neck. He looked up, Ivan was back to walking. _A threat with gunmetal sweetness_ , he realized to himself, swallowing a lump in his throat.

He shook his head, teleporting ahead of the Russian, and meeting his eyes before the other could shoot, “I’ll leave them alone this time. I’m going over to the bees anyways.”

When he vanished, he had almost imagined that he had seen Bragnisky’s form soften when he said he wouldn’t hurt his little ones.

Yeah right.

:::

Alfred got lucky. He found a smuggled crate of apples that hadn’t completely rotted yet, a lot of them having gone through the process of becoming dry fruit. They still tasted good. He took as much as his bundle would carry with him, a few other food items he wanted, along with a few more bottles of liquor. He only had a few cases left at his place, that didn’t sit well with him.

On his way back home, he caught the sight of a Big Daddy walking behind a Little Sister. She was laughing, holding his hand as she yammered on about something or another.

The large metal man’s glow holes were still green; he was content with her seemingly perfect safety. She was smiling. They looked…happy?

The blond saw the splicer before they did.

Something made him waste a bullet in shooting the poor vermin before it could disturb the quaint but adorable stroll among the dead streets of the underwater city.

He didn’t know why he shot the splicer as he put the gun back in his pocket. Maybe it was some obligation to the deal he made with Tenenbaum again to leave the Little Sisters alone, maybe it was the threat of Ivan’s wrath looming over his shoulder. Maybe he just missed his daughter and how she used to laugh with him.

Maybe he needed the whiskey in his bundle more than he thought.

:::

He didn’t drink himself into a stupor that night, still attempting to ration himself and at least try to eat before bed. Everything looked funny as he was drinking the last of one bottle and trying to eat a dried apple. The dried fruit looked funny, he thought. The metal plate made the scars over his chest look funny. Speaking of, all of his scars looked funny. Especially the ones made recently. Those look the most funny. What was funnier was that his heart felt funny thinking about two in particular.

The scars in question were the one in his shoulder and the one by his knee.

Touching the one by his knee made him feel funny.

Touching the one on his shoulder made him sober up, it still hurt.

He liked the scar on his knee better.

He would go to sleep after the bottle was all gone.

:::

_A man chooses_ , the sign still read, _a slave obeys_.

Alfred kicked at the old memorial, thinking of the one of the most egotistical men he had ever met. He walked away after a bit, finding more interest in looting the area than in remembering the man who told him that his wife had been among the weak on the night of Revolution of 1959. He knew she hadn’t been, she had been crying alone and drinking, holding onto a restless child, while he was talking to another woman. A woman who would later make him regret everything he had ever done since coming to Rapture.

_Marie didn’t deserve that, I shoulda-_

He punched Ryan’s bust on the statue. Finding some relief for his sudden grief-induced anger in the sight of crumbling stone and his bruised knuckles, he scowled at the broken pieces. After a whole minute of looking at it, he thought he saw himself like Ryan in a way.

No one wanted him around either.


	13. A Fatal Deck of Cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The King of Clubs was mad with it, everyone knew it – but no one could have foreseen this. How far he had fallen with this disease. Blood was on their hands - they could have prevented this – stopped that one word from being carved into the King's being. Prevented his heartsick demise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #13: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: Teen / Prompt: Cardverse AU. / WARNING: Unrequited love affair, manipulation, implied infidelity and suicide. Major character death.

> _You belong to me,_   
>  _My snow white queen._   
>  _There's nowhere to run, so let's just get it over._
> 
> ~ "Snow White Queen" / Evanescence 

The kingdom of Clubs was the largest region of the board and so it had been for centuries upon centuries. Its rulers were often strict with discipline, hardly allowing for second chances while still holding some form of favor with the people despite the harsh laws. Then came along King Winter, he eased century-old laws and their punishments, allowed more flexibility and was the first Club king to make an attempt at peace treaties with the other lands – and actually holding by it.

The people loved Winter. Despite his cold outwards appearance, the king had a warm heart, one he indulged in three children – two daughters and a son. His lovely wife and Queen could not give him children, but she had agreed to special servant to fit the bill, trying to pick out one to suit her tastes. Such was how the Royals started their family and let it grow.

Princess Katyusha was a born ambassadress and peace maker, calming down feuds between nobles and peasants just as easily as showing her face. She was beautiful with ample chest despite her humble and modest personality. Her blue eyes spoke kindness and her soft pale hands were gentle. She carried herself as a well-behaved lady and learned to read and write in all of the languages of the board.

Prince Ivan was a born to be a ruler as his birthright, along with being an ideal strategist and fighter. Starting from his games of warships and 'kingdoms' with his toys on the floor to physically breaking up fights himself when he came across them. He grew up to be very tall, as high as his father, and his build grew out to accommodate such. Hyacinth eyes twinkled when he got his way. He loved to play cello when he wasn't attending political meetings, if not those two – he was often entertaining guests as he spoke with the guests as easily as breathing.

Young princess Natalya was a mixture of both her elder siblings – a hard strategist like her brother but a noble lady like her elder sister. She carried herself high and demanded only perfection and discipline in her presence. She used her beauty to her advantage to get her way, and if it didn't work, the young woman was not hesitant to stamp her foot and command obedience. She enjoyed piano since she was not a socialist and she played only her best.

The three children loved their parents – and it tore them all deeply when said parents were strung up along with hundreds of Clubs citizens in a widespread epidemic. A strange illness that swept all across the board and downed thousands. The Clubs Royal children were unharmed physically, but emotionally – they were a wreck for a long time.

Ivan was the appointed heir and as such, he took over the throne. Using his own knowledge and taking after his father, he set out to rebuild the kingdom from the fallout. He had his elder sister be his spy to the common people and other Royals and his younger for the nobles of their own lands. In swift time, the three had more than brought up Clubs from the brink of collapse.

However it soon became the talk of the people that Ivan had no Queen – something which caused much sadness. The prince's once-arranged fiancée had perished in the epidemic, her whole household with her, and he had no one. So nobles scattered their households for a reasonable daughter, however such was not needed – when upon a snowy night, a beautiful young woman in a knightly uniform dared to challenge the new King to a duel at a Christmas party.

Ivan had met his match in her – a woman by the name of Elizaveta – and it seemed no surprise that the hot headed little dragon had snatched his affections. She had even brought up a friend of hers to be the new Jack, and despite how everyone wondered how the simple musician knew nothing of politics – he proved the people wrong by proving to be just as headstrong and able-minded She was his counterpart, it seemed, and before long – the whole kingdom saw them wed.

It was supposed to be a happy time – but then  _he_  showed up.

The newly crowned King of Spades was more than brilliant, greater than charismatic, was much better than his predecessor in more ways than one. And his charm was one of an expert; he had a perfect slow, burning passion for anyone and anything he wanted. He could get anyone he wanted, have anyone in his bed or his arms in a matter of a few seconds and barely a handful of words.

He was dangerous.

Not only did the King of Spades leave the King of Clubs far beyond smitten, he put a thick cloth over the paler man’s eyes and whispered nothing but what he knew the older man would want to hear. He blindly led him to his own demise, into the mental breakdown when the Spades leader left him sobbing beneath bottles of wine and vodka after being stood up at their own wedding…twice.

The King of Spades would have just sweet-talked his way back into forgiveness almost every time, a cajoling tone to win back Ivan’s favor and get whatever he wanted. Territory, resources, manpower, etc. – anything he could possibly want, at little to no effort on his part.

And one night, the King of Clubs had one too many bottles of vodka after a particularly awful night without his ‘lover’ by his side, his dependence on the younger blond for his own mental stability a horrid picture of the older man and the nation’s downfall not missed by anyone at all. Too many drinks. Not enough reason left in the older man. He beat a guard to near death for his sword in his severely intoxicated mind and impaled himself.

Ivan had done many things for the King of Spades and dying had just become one of them.

At the funeral, the king was buried alongside his family members in the Clubs mausoleum and the dispute over the inheritance of his rule began. The King of Spades are barely in attendance, didn’t shed a single tear and (by more than a few people) was said to be even smiling as Ivan was lowered into the mausoleum.

Ivan had no child by his ‘partner’ and no surrogate mother to carry any heirs otherwise because his ‘partner’ had claimed jealousy over anyone else being in Ivan’s bed but him – a statement found suspicious by many since the King of Spades was rarely found in Ivan’s quarters at all and very frequently in others. Whether the King of Clubs knew is disputed back and forth, but many agree that if the King had known, he never said anything and tried to disbelieve it himself for the sake of his own sanity.

In the end, there was no one powerful enough to challenge the King of Spades’s claim on the territory and inheritance and he took everything. The entire Clubs nation was infuriated but blue-clothed guards dominated and outnumbered the previous green; silence became the sole option of survival in the newly claimed lands and many wondered on the loss of identity.

The King of Spades did have some notable words post-annexation with word circulating that he now held the greatest amass of territory, population and power in all of the deck. To quote the boy King exactly in regards to his new prestige and about his former lover, he had this to say:

> **“Checkmate.”**


	14. To the Tune of a Broken Lullaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All that glitters isn’t gold…just as all that’s said isn’t always true. Abused at home, Alfred had clung to his childhood lullaby of happier times for solace within the pain. Then, the lullaby broke. But just as it broke, Alfred met someone who could play him a new lullaby...However; their lullaby is as old as their grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #14: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: Teen / Prompt: Love beyond the grave, living/dead love affair. / WARNING: Some minor dark themes, major character death(s), side pairing of FrUK.

> "Love is the most beautiful thing to have, hardest thing to earn and most painful thing to lose."

“Ivan Dmitrievich Bragnisky, born December 15th, 1857 and died on December 14th, 1872,” said Arthur as he sat down on the plot of ground. He looked at the sunflowers, growing tall and proud in the late sunset. He saw the ghost, Ivan, petting one and he sipped his tea from his cup. “Killed in a tragic avalanche accident,” he said, “in the late night of December 14th in Moscow, Russia. He was buried in the United States because of economic reasons.”

Ivan shrugged, “It was simply cheaper.” He turned to Arthur, “It’s the truth, I don’t mind, Arthur.” He giggled. “I know my family was poor. That’s why we moved in the first place: to earn more money so get me over here.”

He smiled, but a sad memory lay behind his violet eyes. “I did make it over here, but I just never got to experience it like the rest of the family did. I came in a coffin.”

Arthur nodded; he stopped to sip his tea before he could continue reading off the old and yellowed newspaper clipping for Alfred, the newly-deceased boy who sat in front of him, eager to hear the rest. The newly-dead teen smiled, lying on his stomach, the dirt nearly seen through his transparent being.

“Go on, Arthur! I don’t have all night,” sky-blue eyes glittered as Alfred giggled, Ivan playfully flicking at his nose. “Okay maybe, _we_ do, but _you don’t_. You have to make curfew.”

Arthur shrugged, not even bothered by the other’s comment in the least. He was used to be being told by the cemetery’s ghosts alike that they despised how he had a curfew so he could make it home in time. _They enjoy my company_ , he thought, _far too much…_

“Ivan Bragnisky was a brother to two sisters,” Arthur said. Ivan turned from the sunflower planted by his sisters at his grave. “Oh yes, my sisters,” he said as he tried to remember them. Alfred turned his head slightly to face him. Ivan’s eyes brightened as memories came back. “Oh yes, my older sister, Sofia Dmitrievna and my baby sister, Natasha Dmitrievna.” He smiled, “Sofia was the sweeter one and Natasha the more…err…eccentric one, I guess.”

Arthur scoffed, “If what you said about your funeral is true, then, she threw herself at your coffin, sobbing like a banshee.” Alfred giggled and Ivan’s face slightly reddened. “She did love me, yes, a bit too much by modern standards.”

“Willing to be buried with her older brother was okay back in the 1870s?”

“As a token of modern society, shut up, Arthur,” Ivan said, smiling. He meant to be angry but it was kind of funny. _Natasha was such a strange one_ , he thought as he saw the sun going down further in the sky. _Francis should be arriving soon…_

Arthur chuckled, “I’m just messing with me, boy; don’t take my words too seriously.” He cleared his throat and Alfred’s attention came back to him to hear the rest of the story. “The young Bragnisky was a cousin to three other children, boys still in his family’s homeland.”

Ivan nodded as he recalled all of their faces. “Da, da, that would be Toris, Raivis, and Eduard. Toris was the mother hen cousin, Raivis the brash one, and Eduard the quiet one who always wanted to reside in the library when it was time to do chores.” He smiled fondly.

Alfred sat up, brushing dirt off of his person, though no dirt could attach to his ghostly body until after sundown when he became solid for an allotted time until sunrise. “Oh, oh, read me, read me!”

Arthur cocked his head and then tucked the clipping of Ivan into his coat. He dug in his pocket and then sifted through the paper-clipped articles of his new tenants. “Anthony, Anon, Amelia, ah yes— Alfred.” He held up the new clipping and smiled gently.

Alfred clapped his hands, eager to hear what the press had written about him in the newspaper, as he said, “Yay!” Arthur shook his head, “You remind me of my son, Alfred, every day.” Arthur looked around, “Speaking of which, where is that little idiot?”

A little boy peeked from behind a tombstone, “Off you, old man, I’m not an idiot!” Peter huffed, hands on his hips, as he took off his white sailor cap and smoothed his hair. He had taken after Arthur’s hair and therefore it always looked scruffy in his eyes.

He was still in the sailor outfit that he had died in, when he perished on the plane from England with his mother, while they were intending to move in with Arthur after he had enough money to get them across the Atlantic.

He smiled at his father, his blue eyes glowing in the late sun as he sat down beside Alfred. Arthur smiled sadly, though his young son had died all too soon, it made him a sort of happy knowing he was buried in the States despite his wife’s family demanding he be buried in England with his mother.

Peter always did favor his father, despite his constant declaration of saying he hated him when the other had to go home and close up the graveyard. “Alright, Peter,” Arthur teased, “You’ll be your father’s little sailor git. Is that better?”

Peter’s nose wrinkled in childish ire. “I’m not a git, either. You keep forgettin’ that, you jerk. I was raised for five years after you left to earn money here, in England.” There was a slight bittersweet note in his tone there that Arthur pointedly ignored. The boy continued his huff, “I know what a git means.”

Arthur teased, “Do you know what a wanker means?”

Ivan outright laughed, and Alfred’s face burned, as he sputtered, “Really Arthur?”

Said Englishman smiled, “I’ll tell when you’re older, Peter.”

Peter huffed, “I may still look like I’m eight, pop, but I’m probably like twenty by now.”

“You’re seventeen.”

“Whatever!”

Arthur chuckled again. He loved his job, if only because of his Gift to see the dead and communicate. It made it a lot better. He made friends with revolutionary figures, talked with nobles and knights, saw his son on a regular basis and got to see love transcend over the line of death and life and survive every time he looked at Ivan and Alfred together.

His smile slimmed down as he thought, _now where’s that presumptuous French tenant of mine?_

“Non, Francis C. Bonnefoy is here!” Arthur rolled his eyes. Speak of the Devil and here he comes, he thought somewhat sourly as he inwardly felt happy at knowing the other’s presence. He turned to frown at said blonde running across the yard towards them. “You’re late, Francis.”

Francis huffed, “Only by a few minutes, mon amor, I was held up by the noblewomen of the Revolution. They were fantasizing over my superior French culture and hair and sexy accent and—“

“Shut up and sit, frog,” Arthur snapped. Francis smiled as he heard the nickname Arthur used for him slip his tongue. Francis twirled the vial in his fingers.

 He had not been held by women of the 1770s. He had been looking for the most potent of foxglove residing by the far west side of the cemetery. He gripped it tightly, thinking back to Arthur’s telling to him that his family suffered from heart problems and that heart attacks were common in his family history.

Foxglove leaves, about two to four of them if he remembered right, caused a heart-attack and usually resulted in death. Francis had six dried leaves ground up in the vial and the moment Arthur turned to refill his teacup, Francis would add the leaves. He would keep his love by any means necessary.

 _I refuse to sleep alone again after I consoled him after the news of the plane crash_ , he thought. After he had to hold him together from breaking when he found Peter at the cemetery gate, calling him and telling him to open it up so he could ask for a few coins to get some fish and chips.

Francis recalled that lovely night Arthur had stayed after his curfew to get a few extra things done, when Peter had decided to play with one of Ivan’s younger cousins, before Alfred had died and when he had had gone home to get some sleep for his next day of school. He recalled the lovely night he was given Arthur’s “other virginity.”

He hadn’t even known he was drooling until Peter slapped him across the face. “Stupid frog, keep your spit in your mouth not on my awesome cap!”

Alfred was rolling on the ground, laughing at him, and Ivan was snickering as he tended to his sunflowers. Arthur was red-faced, large brows twitching and Francis laughing nervously. “D-Did I say something that upset you, mon amor?”

Arthur spoke tightly in French, “Does the night of April nineteenth ring any bells?”

Francis’ face burned, “Uh, err. Well, sure it does, wait—”

The deceased French noble took in Alfred and Ivan’s laughter, Peter’s cluelessness and Arthur’s embarrassment.

“Oh, _oh_. Oh damn,” he giggled nervously as he took one of Arthur’s hands. “My most sincere apologies, mon amor. I did not realize I was speaking aloud of our dearest moment.”

“Peter, if you would kindly,” Arthur said through his teeth.

Peter beamed, as he slapped Francis across the face yet again. “Stupid frog!” The young English boy cried, grinning his father’s smile. Francis saw it on him and smiled as he could still feel the vial of deadly foxglove in his hand. He laughed with the rest of them.

Arthur huffed, as he adjusted his jacket to align it nicely with his shirt. His blush was beginning to subside now. He scanned Alfred’s newspaper clipping as he saw Francis fuss over his portable canister of tea. He read aloud, “Alfred Franklin Jones, born July 4th, 1997 and died on June 18th, 2012.”

Arthur darted a look at said teen and saw him looking him square in the eye, no unease or pain obvious. He knew the new ghost still grieved over the fact that his mother and younger twin brother had moved back to Texas when his parents remarried after his death but he was a strong one.  The boy didn’t cry until exactly a month after the funeral and then again when he was seeing his brother get in the moving van a few months later.

Arthur continued, “Alfred Jones was killed in a tragic car accident, trying to cross Hansen Drive from fifth Avenue. He was struck midway there by a car that had ran the yellow light. He had been knocked into the front wall of a brick building of a bakery and killed instantly. He was 15.”

Arthur frowned, “Alfred? This clipping doesn’t say where you’re from, could you tell us?”

Alfred clicked his tongue as he raised his eyes to the sky as if looking at the sky helped him think. “Um, I was born in Texas, in Houston, originally. But when my parents split up, I tried to stay with my dad but we kinda also moved around a bit, just stayed in Texas though. I never did get along well with my mom for long periods of time. But she asked for a divorce after dad got promoted when the recession cracked down on her, she tried to win custody so she could get child support.”

His blue eyes turned sad and distant, “She won and then I had to leave dad. Even Mathew was upset. Neither of us really got along with our mom and we knew our mom knew it. She didn’t really mind Mattie; they ignored each other’s existence most of the time.”

The young teen sighed, “She dropped me out of all the sports I played in Texas because she didn’t want to drive me to and from school. She made me quit my other clubs because she wanted home at a certain time and then we argued- a lot. She didn’t like me because I looked like dad.”

Alfred rolled onto his back to fully look up at the sky. The stars were starting to come out more. “I’m not sure why she got back with dad after I died. Maybe she realized she was wrong. Maybe she wanted more money. Maybe she was sorry. Maybe she was lonely.” He shrugged, “I don’t care, anymore.”

Arthur nodded, albeit sadly. Then sighed and shook his head. He had come to Alfred’s house once, to return the teen’s book on the revolution and his mother had all but cussed him out on the spot. He had never heard such foul language from a woman aimed at him ever in his life. He was just lucky Alfred had heard, coming down the street, and saved him from future humiliation. “No offense, Alfred, but she was a vile woman and I can’t fathom how your father put up with her let alone married her.”

Alfred laughed, “No offense taken, Arthur, I don’t know either. Dad says she wasn’t as bad before we came. It probably happened after Mattie and I were born, anyways.” He shrugged, still smiling even as Ivan gave the new ghost a concerned look.

Arthur finished off the article, “Alfred has one brother, a Mathew Williams, who is his fraternal twin.”

Arthur smiled, “My, my, you never said you had a twin, just a brother. How interesting…I must acquire a book on multiple births tomorrow. That should make for an excellent reading. I wonder if multiple births run in my family…” He asked himself and Peter sighed as Francis tried to discreetly stir in the foxglove leaves. He was nearly done, only a little more…

“Dad…” Peter complained, “You’re such a bookworm! Can’t you hear anything without checking out a book on it two seconds later?”

“Why yes,” Arthur said, indignantly. “I’m waiting until tomorrow to get this now, happy?”

Peter blinked and then groaned, “I’ll give you that one, jerk.” He grumbled about planning to haunt the library this weekend.

Arthur tucked the clipping away. “Well, that was you, Alfred. Your death was on the news so not all of your information went to the papers, unfortunately.” He nodded to Ivan, who smiled in turn and nodded back as he turned to see the sun finally make it down.

“Unlike me,” Ivan said, “when televisions weren’t invented yet and we used newspaper to better transcribe our news and information.”

“Oui! This tea is now deemed acceptable in the name of France!” Francis cried as he held out the portable canister of tea.

The entire vial of fox glove was inside the canister, even a tiny helping of the deadly nightshade he had sneaked from Ivan’s outer coat pocket. The other had planned on using it for Alfred, if his death hadn’t happened, he was going to put the dangerous ground up plant in Alfred’s drink.

Francis nudged the canister into Arthur’s hands.

The Englishman raised a brow, “So you had it! I’ve wanted a drink for nearly ten minutes and you had it, dang blasted frog.” He harrumphed as he took a long drink, right as Francis grinned at how easily the other took it down before Peter and Ivan and Alfred started, smelling the hidden foxglove and nightshade.

“Tastes a bit zingy than I remember,” Arthur slurred as he downed more. “I must have packed spiced tea or Earl Grey today.”

“Pops!” Peter cried, as his hands gripped his hair. His eyes were about to brim, he was going to cry. He had just smelt about six or seven leaves of foxglove. Way more than a needed fatal dosage, even without the three deadly nightshade leaves thrown in, Arthur was a soon-to-be dead man.

“Arthur!” Ivan shouted as he left his sunflowers to slap the canister away. But it was too late. He could see the foxglove already taking effect as Arthur paled and his eyes looked pained.

“Dude, no!” Alfred shouted, as he saw Arthur double over.

“Thank you, Arthur Edwards-Jamison Kirkland,” Francis said as he watched non-unhappy blue eyes. He pushed his blonde hair behind his shoulder as he pushed past all the other ghosts. He was older than all of them. He had died in the late-1700s, sometime the French Revolution. He knew what it was like to be alone for centuries. He knew it better than Ivan by over two hundred years. But now he had found someone worthy of his affection.

Arthur was English, a trace of England in everything he did and said, and that made him against France. Francis had found in him as a good debating companion. Arthur knew history, had taken a major in it at university a few years back. Francis could tell him of his life before his demise and Arthur would listen to every word if it was historical-based and not about his sex life.

Arthur still knew and practiced the French language, was still more than brilliant with it, Francis had found someone to talk to when he missed home. Arthur was his friend and he had slept with him. Francis had found Arthur to be better than any whore or any woman, married, engaged or unattached, to make him feel better than anyone else.

Arthur would be _his_.

Arthur’s eyes were misting over in pain. What was going on? Why did his chest hurt? It was burning too? He had put too much spice in his tea again. Maryann had always told him he was going to give himself a heart attack doing that. _Looks like my wife was right,_ he thought as he lay, doubled over and dying, _I killed myself with that one extra spoonful of cinnamon._

“-ncis, ya jackass! How could you? Ya gave him foxglove?”

 _Wait, what Alfred saying? Gah, that boy’s Texan accent always came through when one of his emotions rose high._ It was dreadfully annoying. Arthur could barely understand him.   _What were those boys going on about, over there? Was it over last night’s football game?_  

“-hat shit kills people! How much did you give him?”

“-bout seven leaves and a few leaves of nightshade.”

 _Wait, why was Peter crying?_ Arthur thought, _is everything alright over there_? He could barely hear himself think over the hard pounding of his erratic heart in his ears. _Why was Ivan holding Francis by the scruff of his shirt? Why wasn’t Francis begging for his life? Why was he so calm while Arthur was dying?_

 _Of course, the frog has no heart_ , he thought sadly as he saw Peter start to smile and pet his hair. “It’s almost over, pops, you are going to stay with us in a few minutes.”

 _What was he talking about_? Arthur thought before the connections dawned on him as he suddenly felt extremely heavy then weightless. He sat up but he **didn’t**.

He frowned as he looked down.  He paled and shrieked as he saw his dead face looking at the ground. “Bloody Hell, it was just some extra spice! What the Hell? Was I really that susceptible to heart attacks?”

Peter giggled, as he wiped off the remaining tears, and Arthur turned to him. “No, Pops, Francis poisoned your tea.”

Arthur blinked, “He did...what?”

Francis rushed to defend himself, “I did, mon amor, I wanted you to stay here. With me,” Francis paused, “I didn’t want to be alone anymore.”

Arthur blinked, “Then why didn’t you just ask me, you bloody wanker?” Ivan dropped the Frenchman and Alfred sighed as he petted Ivan’s arm. They went to tend to Ivan’s sunflowers to talk quietly and Peter ran off as he saw Raivis call his name from a few tombstones over.

Francis blinked, “Really?” He smiled, “You would have died for me?”

Arthur rolled his eyes and detangled himself from his corpse. “I won’t say that, but my health history isn’t very good. You didn’t have to poison me. I probably only had a few years left in me anyways, besides being only 43, one of my childhood illnesses could have come back. I could have died any day now; my immune system isn’t very good.” He scoffed, “I was in the hospital for a week once after I caught a cold. Bloody system,” he growled.

“You are not mad?” Francis asked, inching closer to the Englishman.

Arthur saw this and raised a thick brow. He snapped, “Of course, I’m mad! My family line has just ended! I was the last male Kirkland! My baby sister, who is going on 37 in London, is going to get all of my stuff!” He frowned as he thought about it. “She’ll probably sell it to get back with her ex-husband. Money always did bring that bastard back. He just wants her money, I swear.”

Francis hugged him, shocking Arthur. “Oh, I am so happy!” He was spun them around and Ivan looked back to raise a brow before Alfred leaned up to whisper something in his ear that made his head snap back to the smirking younger teen, face growing red and engulfed in shock.

“Great,” Arthur muttered, “now I have to call the other grave keeper to come put me somewhere and spend the rest of eternity with you.”

Francs laughed, “Won’t it be grand, Angelterre?”

Arthur allowed a thin smile, “Yes, Francis, it will be.” He glared at the blonde Frenchman when he pecked his cheek. “Now will you bloody Hell let go of me!”

Francis laughed, “Still as feisty in death as you were in life. I love you, Arthur.”

“Whatever, frog,” Arthur grumbled but at Francis’ squeeze, he murmured, a near-silent, “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an unfinished longfic in my own archives, but I did as much as I could to relay the major points of the story.


	15. Witchcraft Evidence (1/3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred was fairly normal until he came across the witch. When the boy first encountered the witch, it was a kind meeting, a gesture of friendliness. But the boy grew into a man and the witch’s world was not very kind. Stakes are high in these woods, which Ivan knows very well, but it was just a shame that their story ended so tragically and so horribly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #15: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: Mature / Prompt: Witch!Ivan / WARNING: Implied unrequited love affair, parental abuse, and some supernatural elements.

> Every story has a beginning.
> 
> Every crack and scratch has a source. Even stories have a beginning, some are sad, some are happy, some are both. Some are just simply tragic. This is one of those stories, such a sad tale was the one of Ivan Bragniski. A marvelous witch; he had been a brilliant man with a heart only bigger than his stomach.

Ivan's big heart told stories – a mother who died for her children, a father who went after her to the lake, an older sister who got lost and ran into her own death, a younger sister who was stolen and sold for a silver coin to watch as she begged in a blubber of foreign tongue to be returned to her only blood left. It was a feat on its own that Ivan had retained any love for the humans who had caused him so much pain.

Especially the one to single-handedly cause his downfall – the little boy to brush by his forest and get lost in its dark and evil woods. The boy was named Alfred, some lovechild of a wealthy merchant and his maid, the wife hadn’t been too happy in his staying but got her way in the maid being not only fired but deported to Georgia. The wife was still cruel to the boy who stole her husband’s affections.

Alfred was a sweet boy but the wife whispered nasty words to him, told him lies, wove his little mind through her fingers and twisted his morale. Alfred grew older into a selfish child who ran off often for arguing with his nannies about bedtime. It was in one dash away that he ran into the wrong woods to wait for some poor nanny to beg for forgiveness or risk his father’s hand and her upcoming noose.

A wolf howled in the distance. The forest whispered and crackled at the foolish boy. A root tripped him, thorns tore at his stockings and his pudgy hands, tall and shadowy figures tricked him into going further into the darkness. Closer and closer to the river where the living liked to die and steadily closer to the witch whose heart and life he’d steal in the future.

It was just as the wolf pack was closing in that Alfred’s luck turned. His face was dirty and gritty, blood and saliva dotting the corners of his nose and mouth, tears in his eyes as he tried to catch his breath.

“What are you doing here?” came a voice in the dark, moments later, a pair of booted feet and a large body attached to them. Alfred had to look up – very far up to meet the stranger’s eyes. The witch smiled, trying to appear friendly, he could practically smell the fear radiating from the child. “Are you lost? From the town, I would believe?”

Alfred couldn’t believe it – the being in front of him dressed so weird. He had a necklace of teeth on his neck, a fur cloak on his shoulders to guard against the cold and dark clothes to blend into the dark forest. But his face and his heart were so light, even his lips, and his eyes almost seemed to glow. They just seemed so bright.

“Y-yes, I’m lost…from the Kirkland manor?” Alfred confessed, “Can you help me back?”

“Yes, yes, I think I know that manor, lots of willows by the far bank,” the stranger nodded. He smiled, holding out his hand for Alfred to take. “Come, if we hurry, we can get there before sun down.”

Alfred tried to wipe his dirty hands unto his dirtier pants before he took his hand. Upon their skins touching, the child felt a sense of security and warmth flow down his being. He started and the stranger looked down, “Something wrong?”

“N-no,” the child replied, fighting back the blush on his cheeks. He followed the taller wordlessly as he hummed and his long strides made Alfred envious. He saw the wolves watch from a distance, as if confused, and he inched closer to the stranger.

The stranger nodded, glancing to the wolves and holding their gaze until they dispersed. They sped up their walking, the taller murmuring under his breath about things that Alfred could not make out. Before long the stranger stopped. They were at a bank, a pretty one with tiny fish swimming in it, the setting sun reflecting off of the water. “This is where I stop – your home is just beyond the hill, try not to get lost again, yes?”

“Who are yo-?” Alfred tried to ask, tightening his grip on air. He gasped, spinning on his heel to turn and see no one to his side or behind him. He called out into the forest but then the grieving nanny heard his voice and came running to scream his name. He was dragged from the woods, warned about the dangers and told to be more careful of those who lurk in it. Alfred almost listened, now feeling the pain from his scratches and long wandering from home that he hadn’t felt in the stranger’s presence.

He glanced back at the forest. A white face smiled in the dark, a soft giggle floating soundlessly in the air and heard only by his ears before the child blinked and the image was gone forever.

For a long time, he visited the river bank, leaving toys and cookies and small gifts at the edge for the pale stranger who helped him. When he would return the next afternoon, the toys would be gone, the cookies too, and a new gift had taken their place.

Soft scarfs finer than any material he had ever known. There were toys that lit up as soon as he wished them to and hand-crafted little soldiers to march after him. He liked to play by the riverbank with his special toys, hide them from the other children and never let neither the wife nor his nannies see him with them. He feared that they’d see his joy and take them away – especially the wife.

But then, one year, news came to the manor that children had gone missing into the forest and had never been recovered. Groups were going into the forest to find them but less than a fourth would come out, and not one spoke of the horrors that he had seen within the natural maze.

It confused Alfred but one day when he played by the riverbank, he swore that he saw someone putting something down at the edge where his new toys usually were. He called out to them, running, but he tripped and fell down the hill instead. The stranger had gasped and gone to catch him at the base before he could hit the rocks.

Alfred was saved but he missed the stranger’s face. One of his nannies had seen the ordeal, had saw the shadowy wisps over the stranger and screamed. “Witch! Witch! A witch is making off with the babe!”

Alfred was put down as carefully as a rushed man could before the stranger vanished back into the darkness. The servants and various workers of the manor gathered the boy and some went to inspect the brief edge of the forest but no one saw the stranger that the nanny described: A face as pale as death, eyes that glowed like the pits of Hell and a cloak of sin.

It would be years before Alfred saw the pale stranger again, but he dreamt of that giggle often, replayed the words said to him often, tried to preserve the memory of the feeling he had felt in the forest. But as he grew older, it became harder to remember, until one night when he tried to – he found that he simply had nothing to remember.

Out of habit, he went to the riverbank, but the toys had long since stopped appearing at the edge. Only a sprout of bright and tall yellow flowers took their place. Each year, a new one took root and blocked entry into the forest.

The sunflowers grew thick, and when Alfred pushed one aside, dozens more seemed to step in his way. No matter how many he pushed out of the way, the sea of flowers never ceased until he gave up and went back up the riverbank to home. One time, after he had turned around, a face appeared from the sea of yellow, and whistled.

Alfred turned but no one was there. He had frowned, called it his imagination and walked on.

Then came a summer where he was sixteen. His father was away, the wife was angry over something that Alfred had or hadn’t done and the teen was paying her no mind. He was away in his thoughts, minding his own business when she came to slap him across the face. Alfred bumped his knee up in shock. Knocked his ink well over and tipped the dark liquid over the front of his vest and pants. She shouted even more but this time – Alfred shouted back.

The letter had been one for his father.

The wife was furious at his disrespect. She shouted insults and threw things and blamed him for anything and everything her mind came up with and Alfred gave her just the same. The argument grew too heated and servants had to pull the two apart but not before she spat at his face.

Alfred walked out, declaring himself done for the evening, and went in search of fresh air. Fresh air turned into a long walk along the manor. A long walk along the manor turned into staring across the river bank to the woods. He debated it, decided only to travel in distance of the sight of his home.

Fireflies lit a path for him, as if he was an honored guest, the moss didn’t squelch as he had thought it would. No twigs snapped under his weight. Trees seemed to bow. The forest seemed alive and welcome to him and then –

The wolves howled. The trees flinched inwards and then turned on him. The fireflies went from golden white to a terrific red. The twigs didn’t just snap and alert the predator of prey, they gathered into bushes and blocked possible ways out of the forest. The path kept being going around and around the same and different corners. He saw the same trees and he saw different trees.

The manor wasn’t in sight when he turned around. For while, there was only the sight of more forest and the sound of the wolves chasing him down. Then, he came to a dead end and found a boulder over the path to the river bank. He knew it was the river bank, he could hear the water. The wolves howled again and the forest laughed at him.

“I see you are lost again, yes?” Alfred spun on his heel to see the pale stranger at his side. He hadn’t aged a day, still wearing the same things, but his face was no longer comforting, it was amused. A sly face, a face that said ‘I know something that you don’t’ and laughed at you. Alfred didn’t much like it.

“So what if I am?” Fear made the young noble indignant. Bold even against a possible savior. “Get me out of here!”

“Such a demanding tongue,” the pale stranger said. A moment later, he had Alfred’s tongue in his hand, examining it at his height. Alfred tried to close his mouth but couldn’t. He didn’t taste any blood but realized with a shocking feeling that he had no tongue and that he couldn’t speak.

The pale stranger hummed, turning the tongue over in his hand, “Very pink. Too many spots though. You have a really bad sweet tooth.” He smiled, snapping his hand with the tongue in the palm. The wet muscle disappeared and Alfred felt invisible hands shut his mouth. His tongue moved inside of his mouth, feeling out his gums and teeth.

Blushing hotly, he glared at the stranger. “Will you help me or not?”

“Yes and no,” the pale stranger answered, smiling, as he walked away. The fireflies seemed to gather at his shoulders, golden white balls of fire, and he smiled wider as if they were whispering to him. Alfred chased the taller, “Hey! Why aren’t you leading me out of here? It looks like you’re going deeper into the fore-!”

“Deeper into the forest, no,” the stranger laughed. “But I will lead you to riverbank. You were the one going the wrong way.”

Alfred stood for a moment, stunned and confused, until he heard the wolves howl again and followed back close to the stranger’s side. Out of some inane urge, he reached for the other’s white hand and felt a wash of relief and warmth fill him. The stranger smiled down on him, “Such a strange boy you are, Alfred.”

It took a minute but then Alfred’s raised brow turned to full shock as he nearly pulled away. “How do you know my name?”

“I know many things,” the stranger grinned. “One of them is how to get out of the forest.” He gestured to the backend wall of sunflowers. He pushed Alfred forward, “Be safe and try not to get lost again, the forest is tricky.”

“What – you never answered my question!” Alfred snapped but then he was back into the bright afternoon where before it had late morning. There was no pressure on his back and when he turned, no face greeted him. Only sunflowers. He tried to push them apart, calling out angrily for his demands to be answered, but then something dark met him instead. A horribly and ugly face seeming to be harshly carved into dark wood met him – its beady eyes bore fury, mouth engraved into a snarl.

Unseen hands threw the teen back and left him, the dark face melting back into the sunflowers, not even a body to be seen, only an ugly face. The whole experience unnerved Alfred who hurriedly dusted himself off and ran away. He didn’t look back – didn’t miss how the sunflowers had all turned in his direction as if glaring down upon the boy.

The forest did not like the boy and the boy did not like the forest, however, the forest held something that the boy was determined to get answers from.

It took a bit of time to work up the nerve to go near the forest again but he did. He chose around the time of winter, so that the sunflowers were weaker and their barrier seemingly not as dense. This time when he pushed them around, he wore gloves on his hands, their unusually rough greenery not hindering him this time. It took effort to get through the small ocean of dying flowers, but when he crossed, he was met with the back of a pale head.

“Hey – I found you,” Alfred beamed, a grin about to form, but the familiar stranger did not turn. Alfred’s grin slimmed and he walked forward, only for his boot heel to get caught in something. In the distance, there was a snarl and an aggressive bark. “What the -?”

He looked down for a brief second to see his foot tangled in some kind of foliage. He frowned. It hadn’t been there a second ago. He felt a breath at his ear.

“Hello again,” the stranger smiled. Alfred jumped in his skin then regained himself and huffed.

“Hello to you too, I have questions for you.” Alfred began.

“Ask away then,” the stranger replied, kneeling down to tsk at the vines at Alfred’s feet and unwrap them, muttering about spoiled children. The teen took offense.

“What’s your name?” he started, “And how did you know mine the last time?”

“My name is…” the stranger paused, “Ivan, yes, that’s it. Ivan. And you told me your name.” the teen raised a brow, frowning.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did,” Ivan defended. His eyes grew a bit distant, “You did it but you do not remember, I am not sure why though.”

“I don’t remember it because you’re lying,” Alfred said, ire rising in him.

Ivan gave him a cold look, “You’d be wise to mind your tongue here. You don’t have that privilege in this world.”

Alfred was silent for a moment, thinking over the other’s words, “What do you mean ‘in this world?”

The taller rose from the ground, shrugging. “You’re free to go now. I don’t want you wandering here right now. There’s been some…disagreements lately that I need to put to right. Excuse me.”

Alfred tried to call out for him to wait but felt himself shoved backwards and out of the forest, right past the dying sunflowers and right back over the bank. He landed in the dirt and none too gently. Groaning at the slight pain in his back, he cracked open his eyes and saw the sky already dark. Alfred started, he was late, how had time gone by so far?

He scrambled up the hill to the manor and once again missed the sight of the sunflowers – those dying and now ugly flowers – aching and turning to glare at him.

Alfred tried to escape out again one night but was stopped by the screeching wife on the accusations of him having a peasant lover. He denied her words at first but gave up and simply walked out of the room, having no patience to deal with her.

This time, in his escape, he waited at the river bank. He doesn’t cross it. Something in him told him to wait. He skipped some of the nearby stones in an attempt to fend off boredom and after some several minutes, his patience is rewarded when Ivan comes from out of the sunflowers.

He looked like he had just walked away from a horrible fight or maybe a violent feast – dark blood all over his mouth, dribbling down his nose as dark rings sat under his eyes. There ran a spider web of cracks down his face. He had almost seemed to start as he saw Alfred at the river, frowning and looking around, before coming closer to the riverbank. “Alfred…how long have you been here?”

He almost sounded afraid.

“Not very long,” the young noble replied, shrugging. “The wife was angry so I left.”

Ivan’s face didn’t change, “You are married?”

Alfred gave him a look and then blushed, looking down at his feet, “Ah…no, I haven’t found a girl I like just yet. She has to meet my expectations and Father gave me the choice to choose so-! I’m going to- Why are you staring at me like that?” The shorter felt so small under that gaze. Vulnerable. Like a prey waiting on a dinner plate.

Ivan did not say anything.

The river continued to ebb quietly enough between them.

“…Ivan?” Alfred tried, he had remembered the other’s nose and apparently that was the right thing to say because then the taller snapped out of it. He was snarling and near stripping himself of all of his clothes to plunge himself into the river.

“Good Lord, sir! Have some decency!” The young noble was shielding his eyes, an aggravated blush staining his cheeks. He heard a strange hissing noise and parted his fingers to peek out. His eyes met bright violet orbs before the water droplets had even hit his thighs. His face was now even more stark white with the water dripping from the contours of it and pale freckles standing out a little in contrast to a large nose.

“No need of that here, we are both men here,” Ivan said smoothly, closely examining the teen’s face. He took his chin in a firm but easy hold, turning it this way and that, before humming to himself and then diving back under the water. The younger was left on the riverbank, completely confused and terrified to move. He waited a long time for Ivan to come out for air or at least make another appearance but he never did.

It had been near an hour before the teen found the will to move. But just as he did, a dark hand that looked much like something close to a root popped from the ground to snatch him back down to the dirt. Alfred yelped, attempting to swat it away but his left arm was snatched and when he twisted, his right arm met the same fate. He felt himself forced to lie there, praying that nothing happened. It felt like forever before the branches let go begrudgingly.

The minute that Alfred felt free, he took off from the riverbank.

Something told him to look back and he didn’t do it.

Ivan was watching him from the water, eyes unblinking, as a vine seemed to rub his shoulders in a comforting gesture and then pull him closer to the forest for a makeshift embrace. He looked so sad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of a 3-part scenario, I'll try uploading the rest. No promises.


	16. The Curse of Fatherhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred…wanted a daddy so badly. Something to fill the void in his evil soul and give him unconditional love. He had tried dozens of daddies before he found the perfect one to call his – and he would have him by any means necessary, his family be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #16: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: Mature / Prompt: Boogeyman!Alfred after his next meal/ WARNING: Onesided CanAme, toxic relationship. Semi-graphic gore, references to drug usage, pedophilia and sexual assault, mental instabilities. All around, very dark fic - and this is unfinished. (It got worse from this, according to my outlines.)

> _"Sickness, insanity and death were the angels that surrounded my cradle and they have followed me throughout my life."_
> 
> -Edvard Munch. 

The following footage is part of the evidence for the Braginsky family massacre and murder, the abduction of Mathew Williams and the disappearance (and possible murder) of Feliks Łukasiewicz.

Caution is advised for any and all graphic material captured on footage; nothing was edited out. 

**[▶** **PLAY]** **3:41 AM 22/07/2004**

The camera was picked up smoothly from the ground, the lens focusing on the large mass that upon proper concentration turned out to be a bloodied and bruised male bound and gagged. He was lying on blood soaked ground. It wasn’t fully discernible if all of it was his or not.

The man was crying or maybe the gag was muffling the full volume of his sobbing. He looked terrified, barely able to move without squirming in the pool of red around him. The camera came closer to his face and he started breathing more heavily. The light from the device showed the pure terror in his features; wide green eyes, white face unnaturally pale and wrinkles set in the corners of his eyes. Speckled blond hair having thick sheets of mud and blood running together to create an unimaginable stylist horror; thick brows raised high on his brow. Nostrils flared dramatically, pupils dilated and reflecting the sick smirk being given to him.

“Daddy…” A hand – almost appearing claylike in the cracks spreading across the flesh - as it came into view and was followed by a six-year-old body. The camera was floating in midair, capturing it all.  “Daddy…”

The stony hand cradled the bruised man’s face, the cracks pulsing once before healing slowly, starting from the fingertips and weaving up the arm. A face turned to view the camera; they looked almost childlike in appearance but their eyes held ages of knowledge and malice. Despite their youth, it was clear to see where the upcoming signs of male puberty would come in, they were a boy.

‘Were ‘being past tense and used very lightly.

They weren’t a child anymore.

This wasn’t even a human.

It wasn’t even something from this world.

Their eyes held the malice of a killer with a child’s vindication. It was such a pretty face; electric blue eyes with deep circles under them, ashen face full of blue veins, small mouth set in a wide grin full of shark teeth – rows upon rows of them. “Say hi to the camera, Daddy. Say bye-bye to the World of the Living.”

The man proclaimed ‘Daddy’ was audibly sobbing under the child’s hand. The boy kissed his cheek, “Aw, don’t cry, Daddy. I’ll make you hurt real good – and then it will be all over…”

The boy stood, almost completely bare, the back of his blond head leaving the camera’s view, and only his bare feet left. The man was screaming behind the gag, struggling to kick away as the reflective metal of a scythe came into view.

“Don’t move, Daddy,” the boy laughed. “I might miss!”

A sick thud.

Then another.

A third.

The sound of hacking filled the silence of the night.

Then seemingly hours later, a cry of indigence and an otherworldly shriek came and the scythe was thrown to the ground. The boy was seen diving to the ground, straddling the mutilated body as he began digging through the bound man’s innards and tossing bloody entrails this way and that as he seemed to search for something desperately.

“God-fucking-damn you…” The boy snarled; his voice was deeper, gravelly and more mature. The little boy rose, but his body was changing – shifting from that of a child to a more mature bodied teenager. He looked nearly full grown and almost normal. But then he turned to the camera, face covered with blood splatters and body gunk. “Nothing but _a fucking pedophile with a Daddy kink_ – I wasted a year, grooming a fucking pedophile, how fitting.”

He rose up quickly, now found to be completely naked, dark tattoos slithering up and down his form in a mimic of a comforting motion. “I have to wait another year for him to come to me… _I want my Daddy_.”

 The young man stomped his foot, the action causing a ripple in the ground and nearly uprooting a nearby tree. “And get the fuck off of me, Mathew, goddamn it, I’m pissed and you’re being fucking stupid!”

The young man snatched at the shadows slithering at his waist, ripping them from him with an audible screech as he pulled a sudden form into existence – a malnourished looking pale boy, roughly the same age as him, but he wore shackles on his limbs and his hair was longer and dirtier.

“Now-” The young male in charge snarled, clenching his hands as he grabbed the collar around the shackled form named Mathew, “Get out there – and find me a fucking Daddy or so help me, your fucking existence as my shadow is gonna be even worse than the Hell I bought you from.”

He tossed Mathew from him and out of view of the camera, the sound of a heavy mass colliding with a wooden fence heard. “Be quick about it, I don’t have time for you being a lazy bitch! And no more fucking pedophiles either, the fuck am I gonna do with this one, Mathew? Your bullshit is gonna piss me off and land you in a lot of shit!”

A pause as Mathew simply laid on the ground, face blank and eyes dead inside.

“I told you to find me a fucking Daddy, get the fuck moving!” The other yelled. He glared at something and then an ominous groan was heard before the otherworldly blond turned back to the camera.

He picked it up, his face blank before he seemed to pout. “Another night – no, another year I spend alone…”

His face softened, “Only a Daddy can stop the ache…”

The softness was broken by a wide sadistic grin that nearly broke the teen’s face, “And I’m gonna find him and eat his fucking insides.”

The camera was dropped to the ground, the lens cracking only slightly in the corner – and then a shriek that sounded a lot like laughter resounded around the space before the lens shattered into spider web designs and the video turned to distortion and then black.

 **[** ■ **STOP]**

 **[▶** **PLAY]** **9:02 PM 04/11/2007**

The raggedy teen was practically crying as he sat at the police table. He was visibly shaking, whether from crashing after his last injection of heroin or a possible anxiety attack, it could have been both. Either way, he was biting his already skinless fingertips as his eyes kept moving over the room. Searching for something – he was looking at something in the darker recesses in the corners of the room. He looked absolutely terrified.

“Mr. Williams?”

Violet eyes looked briefly at the officer as the teen muttered something under his breath. Tears were pricking his eyes. He held his knees to his chest, dirty jeans and hoodie helping to hide his skinny frame; his hair had grown longer. He seemed to visibly wince at something, fingers digging into his scalp as his mutterings grew louder. “–not my fault, I-I was just hungry, I didn’t-“

The first officer, the one to originally call out his name, reached out to the teenager who jumped. Violet eyes widened and the officer nearly fell back when he saw something in them. Well, two things.

One, instead of pupils, Mathew’s eyes held dark red x-marks in the center.

Two, there was someone else looking back through those eyes, something had them flash completely black and brought the x-marks out in stark contrast.

“Hey, Keith?” A second officer helped the first up, a third aiming a gun at Mathew who curled back on himself. The teen looked like he was fighting himself, biting his lip so hard that blood trailed down his lips; the officers backed up from the interrogation table. The two way mirror where their chief waited for the questions to begin was dark.

They looked at each other. There was something off about this kid and something real bad.

There was an audible crack as Mathew’s face collided with the table surface, all officers jumped, as everyone wanted for teen to recover from the sudden crash.

**[ll PAUSE]**

The video was corrupted; playback resumes.

 **[▶** **PLAY]** **9:52 PM 11/04/2007**

“Oh God, someone help us, please!” The third officer was banging on the door, but it was locked from both sides and no one could get it open. The grown man was openly sobbing, blood covering his uniform – the remnants of Keith, the police officer, who was now plastered all over the two way mirror. The second officer was at his back, shouting and trying to shoot at someone before being leapt at, the third officer going down with him as well.

The camera could barely capture it all from the floor, lens cracked, and lying in a pool of blood.

Human and non-human screaming.

Tearing noises.

Ferocious chewing.

A low growl and then a loud siren as the room went dead still.

A black haze dropped Mathew to the floor, the teen out cold, and choking on the chunks of flesh in his mouth. A shadow stroked his face lovingly before stabbing him through the heart. Shallow breaths, whimpers and then…Mathew went still. His hand unfolded and a stark burn laid there.

 _Failure_.

 **[** ■ **STOP]**

 **[▶** **PLAY]** **2:11 PM 09/06/2011**

It was early fall in September and it was a pleasant day to be outside. Well, if Mathew wasn’t unpacking, that was. His left hand itched under the fingerless glove he hide it behind, scowling at his adoptive brother, Eduard. But it was when the camera was turned on Feliks, Toris' best friend, that trouble began to start. “Get that shit out of my face before I break it, Eddie, I’m not kidding.”

When the cameraman refused to stop the footage, Feliks yelled as loud as he could, “Ivan! Eduard’s screwing around with the cameras again!”

The camera was shut off before the large man had even rounded the corner.

 **[** ■ **STOP]**

 **[▶** **PLAY]** **7:45 PM 09/06/2011**

It was almost dark outside, camera lens zooming in and focusing on the light coming from the back porch before cutting to a tall ashen blond expertly chopping what looked like beets.

“Eduard, no gadgets at the dinner table,” an accented voice reminded from the open kitchen and someone groaned. Mathew was leaning on the fridge, mind in space, as he held his arms crossed over his chest. His red hoodie still looked too big and his jeans a bit too baggy but thankfully he was starting to fill out his clothes since his…his last episode.

“Aw, c’mon on, dad, we need to document this new experience,” Eduard began, turning the camera on himself and winking one blue eye, before someone grabbed the camera and turned it on the voice that had spoken earlier.

Bored hyacinth eyes and a large nose set in a mature face, faint smile wrinkles at the corners of their mouth, as the camera was held over Eduard’s head.

“Hey, dad, wait – wait, that’s not how you turn it off,” Eduard pleaded as his father made to turn off the camera. “C’mon, dad, cut me some slack, you haven’t turned on the internet yet- I’m bored,” the teen tried, reaching vainly for his favorite gadget. Unfortunately, his father’s six-foot-four height beat his five-foot-eight.

His father rolled his eyes, clearly not persuaded, “Eduard. Go finish unpacking. I need to talk to Mathew. Alone and without any kind of surveillance,” he added, putting the camera on the table. “Give me five minutes and then you can come back and get it. Keep Raivis from coming in as well, have Toris keep him busy with something, go explore – just – just give me some time alone with him, alright?”

The teen said nothing, unhappy at having his camera taken but his face softened at Mathew’s still distant expression. His father was right, the pale teen had been doing better but they could never gauge the lapse between his episodes, it changed too often and his medication proved no good more often than not.

“Alright…Let me know if you need me? I have my cell and my pager and my-” Eduard began.

“Good bye, Eduard,” his father shoved him from the kitchen, closing the door and then sighing against it. Heavy footsteps snapped across the kitchen tile, the elder silent as he turned off the camera properly before he tried to console his adopted son.

 **[** ■ **STOP]**

 **[▶** **PLAY]** **8:34 PM 09/06/2011**

“So…” Toris tried to start a good family discussion, clearly uncomfortable with his brother’s phone on him and recording a video, despite the strictly enforced rule of no gadgets at the dinner table. “Ah…how does everyone like the new place? Anything anyone wanna bring up?”

Raivis looked up from gulping down his soup, burping behind his napkin. “ ‘xcuse me, uh, I like it, I guess? I wanted the third room but Eduard’s such a freakin’ cheater-“

“Not my fault you tripped on the rug-“ Eduard said from behind the camera. Raivis glared at him.

“I didn’t trip on the rug, you pushed me into the floor, you as-“

“Hey!” Toris interrupted, miffed about such language at the dinner table even though he inwardly knew that his youngest brother had most likely gotten from him. Toris blamed his best friend, Feliks, even though the Pole had never used an actual swear around him.

“Can you guys not do this? One day, jeez,” Toris continued, as he ran a hand through his brown hair. He still didn’t get how his hair had taken on his paternal grandfather’s shade though both of his parents were clearly blond. Well, he thought he remembered his mother being blond. She had taken off early after Eduard’s second birthday, his dad said. He never pressed further. It was a sore topic for the elder. Only he and Eduard shared the same mother, Raivis was technically his cousin from his deceased aunt Katyusha, but since she’d died in childbirth and the father was nonexistent, his dad had raised him as his own. Unfortunately or not, Raivis had grown up calling his uncle by his father and despite being told otherwise, he refused to break the habit.

“So, ah, Mathew?” Toris tried to get the violet eyed teen to speak up, he used to at least smile a little, but his recent episode had put the blond back in his shell again. Apparently, deeper inside too, as he stirred his borscht uninterestedly, Toris noticed. “How do you like your new room? Dad said you get to have the bay window room, since y’know you look out the window a lot and - ah…”

Mathew wasn’t talking.

Raivis slurped noisily on his soup to fill the silence as Toris almost gave up. Meanwhile Eduard kept filming. 

“It’s nice, thank you,” was all Mathew said. He gave a half heartened look up to his oldest adoptive sibling. He almost tried to make a smile but something made him duck his head again. He pushed his bowl away. “…I’m not very hungry.”

“You’ve barely touched your food,” Toris pointed out, concerned. “Could you please take a few bites, it would make Dad really happy to see you eat again…” Slight guilt tripping, yeah, it was a low move but the eldest brother hated to see any of them suffer.

"Get me off camera, first," Mathew said, without looking at him. "Then I'll eat."

Eduard sighed, the noise of fingers tapping on the device audible underneath his sigh. "Fine, fine, everyone is a party pooper today."

"Eduard-" Ivan started to scold.

 **[** ■ **STOP]**

 **[▶** **PLAY] 3 **:12 AM 06/09/2011****

The video was somewhat corrupted but an image of Mathew lying on the floor in the fetal position of his room, crying and covering his face with heavily scarred hands was visible. 

"Please...don't," he was moaning. There was dark liquid streaming from down his pale face, the camera zoomed in on his face; the bruises and busted lip and the discolored eye swollen shut from being beaten.

"No," a disembodied voice replied. "You had enough time, it's my turn now."

"No, please-" Mathew started to beg.

 **[** ■ **STOP]**

The video was corrupted; playback resumes much later.

 **[▶** **PLAY] 5** **:21 PM 31/12/2011**

Mathew was smiling, but the gesture seemed odd on his face, too big and too confident from his previous appearances. He was seated almost too close to his adoptive father, Ivan, everyone was gathered in front of the camera, Eduard's body in front of the lens for most of the beginning of the feed. "Almost...almost got it, gotcha!" He exclaimed, cheering as he backed away. "And we are live!"

Feliks was beside Toris, a cheap 'Happy New Year' crown on his head, as he checked the time on his phone. "Yeah, and it only took what- 2 hours?"

"Listen here," Eduard began. "I didn't see you tryin' to help-"

"But if we could just get along and not fight before the new year, that'd be great, thanks!" Toris interrupted, holding his friend by his shoulders to keep him from getting into a fight. Eduard stuck out his tongue, Feliks through an Oreo cookie, with Raivis laughing in the background as Ivan tried to sigh and simply sip from his wine glass. Mathew gave the older man a sidelong glance that almost lasted too long for innocent, but then his eyes cut sharply to the camera. There was a brief glimmer in his eyes, a flicker of a red x-mark, and then the video feed cut out.

 **[** ■ **STOP]**

 **[▶** **PLAY] 4:15** **AM 14/02/2012**

"W-what are you," a gruff voice accented from both his native language and sleep began. "Mathew? Is that you?"

"Only for you, daddy," the voice wasn't Mathew's.

"Who in the Hell-" Ivan had started to sit up and then right as something or someone pounced on him, the larger body thrashing on the bed, the video feed cut out once more.

**[■ **STOP]****

****[▶ **PLAY] 4:17** **AM 14/02/2012**** **

The video was corrupted; a brief image of Ivan's face - horror stricken and somewhat flushed.

Disgust was clear, the target unknown, from the very up-close footage of his face. The flash was on, the light making the Russian squint to avoid being temporarily blinded, but on his shoulder, from a brief seconds-long glance, there were teeth marks. Not hickeys. Savage teeth. There was blood on the pillow behind him.

**[■ **STOP]****

****[▶ **PLAY] 4:58** **AM 14/02/2012**** **

The video was corrupted; but an image was somewhat clear underneath the distortion.

Ivan was missing an eye, obviously in pain, and mouth caught mid-scream. 

**[■ **STOP]****

****[▶ **PLAY] 5:01** **AM 14/02/2012**** **

An image of short-haired blond sitting atop Ivan's lap, back arched and then there was a moan, "Mm, did you miss this, daddy? Did you miss having another body in your bed, on your cock?" The figure seemed to be riding a motionless body, one arm limp off the side of the bed, blood coming down in dark rivulets. "Damn, I missed you so much, daddy, give me one more good sugar, before I go-"

A ferocious snarl and then the figure was bowing over and seemingly taking a chomp out of Ivan's neck.

**[■ STOP]**

****[▶ **PLAY] 8 **:03** **AM 14/02/2012****** **

"Hey Toris?" Said brunette turned from stuffing something in his backpack, looking up at his brother and almost immediately frowning at the sight of the camera again. He wanted to sigh but his younger brother seemed concerned. He frowned at that, straightening up as he started to put his backpack on. "What is it?"

"Have...have you seen dad yet?" Eduard began, "like I thought I heard something last night, and he's usually up by this time in the morning so like-"

Toris made a slight face, shushing the other nonverbally, as the sound of footsteps came and Raivis came into the kitchen, trailed by Mathew. He looked pink in his cheeks, a different sort of flush from the wetness still holding onto his hair from his earlier shower. He had a certain smirk about him too, one that unnerved the older siblings in the room a great deal.

The boys argued and fought over which of the apples were better, who was taking what Gatorade in the fridge, who had claim to the next bag of chips and so on until they all left for the bus stop around 8:30AM. Everything on the film seemed domestic and nothing was out of the ordinary. Mathew was chatting almost too amiably with Raivis, but the younger seemed just happy to have someone to keep up with him. 

Toris and Eduard seemed to hang behind the younger two, the taller turning to his brother and mouthing, 'We'll talk later' to the camera before the bus driver told Eduard to cut off his camera before he got on the bus. The video feed ended before the bus driver could even finish scolding him for 'bringing that dang camera on the bus again' for some upteenth time.

**[■ **STOP]****

**[▶** **PLAY] 10:04** **AM 25/03/2012**

Ivan sat the table, eye sunken beneath dark bags, reading something from the newspaper. Everyone looked uncomfortable in his presence, even Feliks whom had spent the night for the weekend.When Mathew came in, however, Ivan's eyes had darted up, the elder visibly flinched, his hand almost tearing his morning newspaper in his haste to leave the kitchen.

"Dad-" Raivis started.

"Hey, what's-" Toris stood up from his seat, leaving his oatmeal and Feliks behind, as Mathew continued to saunter in, humming some unknown tune. Eduard seemed uncomfortable behind the camera as the adopted teen took a yogurt cup from the fridge, found a clean spoon in the dishwasher and started eating, leaning a hip against the island countertop. He was still smiling, as if knowing, too knowing, all too knowing of the situation and Ivan's distress.

"Hey, uh, Mathew?" Eduard began, out of sight from camera, his voice almost sounded unsure. Mathew looked up, spoon halfway out of his mouth in a fashion that almost beyond innocent. Raivis was looking at Eduard, Feliks looked ready to bolt in his pink pajamas. Eduard continued, "Isn't....isn't that dad's shirt...?"

Mathew didn't even look down, smiling stretching a bit wider as he continued eating his yogurt; Toris came back down, looking frustrated and murmuring to himself that his father was acting so weird lately. He seemed to notice the same thing as Eduard, "Hey, isn't that my dad's shirt?"

"So it is," the adopted teen said casually. "So it is..."


	17. History has Cracks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their songs were danced to from a broken record player, so they kept making the same moves over and over without getting or going anywhere for long periods of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #17: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: Teen / Prompt: Canonverse; imperial Russia and colonial America. Unrequited crushing, seen on both ends but never admitted. / WARNING: A few historical inaccuracies, i'm sure. Implied child abuse, some verbal abuse as well.

> Every story has a beginning.
> 
> Every crack and scratch has a source. Even stories have a beginning, some are sad, some are happy, some are both. Some are just simply tragic.
> 
> No one just immediately hates someone so vehemently, so strongly but without good reason. There was always a reason. There was always a motive – a vendetta, in the extreme cases.

In their cases, it was both a vendetta and a taunt. Hatred built on what started out a promise to ruin the other and soon turned into a borderline childish game of always trying to one up the other party. Having more toys meant having more weapons, more people more friends, more hatred more reason for the game to continue.

“I hate you more” became the ultimate comeback.

But it wasn’t always this way. No, there used to be a time when instead of hatred, there was something warm, something friendly, giving, kind, every synonym for all that was good – it was such a beautiful thing they had once had.

Alfred F. Jones, the fresh-faced representative of the United States of America, and Ivan Bragniski, the childishly cruel representative of Russia. It was to be mentioned that the older male no longer wishes to acknowledge the older name of which he once went by.

 It was the only thing that Alfred would respect him for – if not for being a total inconsiderate bastard with their history.

But back to their dance –

To pick the starting point in the history of their relationship, the very beginning, it would draw the curtains to a scene in the mid-17th century with a colonial America. Ivan had come across the child, tuning out the boastful comments of Arthur as he went on and on about how the ‘New World’ had been so fruitful to his fingers.

Then, a giggle – Arthur had continued on, as if he hadn’t heard it, but Ivan had and he had tuned back into his surroundings to find the source. Then came another and another, Ivan was becoming annoyed. The weather was much warmer in its summers than Russia had ever been, the bugs were loud in his ear almost as loud as Arthur, and he didn’t like that he couldn’t find the source of that giggling.

Another giggle and the Russian stopped short, Arthur continuing to walk until he turned around on a whim and frowned. “What is it?”

The Russian said nothing, waited for the giggle to come back, heard only buzzing insects and some foreign bird in the distance. Arthur became impatient with his reply and snapped at him to get back to walking. Ivan followed behind, somewhat suspicious of the silence and then it came again. But this time, Arthur noticed and threatened, “One more misstep and you’ll earn yourself a switch.”

There wasn’t any more giggling after that. Nightfall came and with it, a slight drop in the temperature. Arthur had long retired into the house, a lavish dinner had been served and once more boasted as the norm, Ivan paid little mind to the English country and more attention to the two children.

One was pale, polite and ate his dinner only to get out of the room. His hair was blond, his dark purple eyes holding a slight dark ring from lack of sleep. His shirt cuff links were all the way to his wrists and still seemed too baggy, the same for his shirt. He didn’t speak at all during dinner, not that Ivan expected him to. When he caught Ivan looking, he met his eyes briefly and the Russian saw a low lying hatred. The pale child glanced at Arthur speaking to a maid, his small fist clenching on his fork. He quietly mumbled that he was done eating although his plate was still half full, he left early after Arthur bid him goodnight.

The other child was brighter, more animate, and Ivan held a sneaking suspicion that he was the one to have done the earlier giggling outside. His eyes were light blue, he held some freckles, and he wouldn’t sit still. Arthur ignored him – but the child did not ignore him.

Ivan could feel the little eyes on him the entire dinner and while it unnerved him, he couldn’t find it in himself to work up the nerve to tell him to stop whereas he usually would in a poor disguised threat of punishment.

Dinner ended and Ivan said he was going to bed. Arthur had let him go and went on his own ways. The Russian had only been a few feet down the hall before he stopped and turned around to growl, “Stop following me.”

It was the children. The pale one seemed distrustful of him, frowning, but the other was beaming. “Are you Mr. Russia?” The bright one asked, the Russian didn’t dignify him with a response, just turned and went back to walking. The sound of tiny footsteps joined him and he grew irritable. “Stop following me.”

“Not until you tell us your name and why you’re in the Big House!” The bright one declared, grabbing onto Ivan’s arm. The pale one didn’t do much, walking alongside the Russian, barely in his shadow, but easily overlooked from most angles. His face made Ivan anxious to leave them both. He just looked like a revolt waiting to happen.

“I’m Alfred,” the bright one introduced. “That’s my brother, Mathew, we’re twins, Arthur said. I forget who’s older…”

“I am,” Mathew hissed.

“Oh,” Alfred replied. “Well yes, Mattie’s older and I –“

“Don’t call me that,” Mathew snapped, his voice echoing in the hallway. Ivan frowned, looking down on the older child. He was openly glaring now, not as vehemently as he had given to the back of Arthur’s head, but close. Obviously the two children did not get along well.

Alfred said nothing, his smile unbreakable, as he kept talking. “Now you know our names, what’s yours? Now you have to tell us! It’s common curtsy!”

“Courtesy, you idiot,” Mathew corrected. He made to grab Ivan’s free hand, squeezing tightly.

“No one asked you,” Alfred said smoothly. “Um, so what’s your name, stranger?”

Ivan said nothing, between the two children at some kind of race in who could grip his hand the hardest; his temper was rising slowly but surely. He had never much liked being used. But his room door was close now. He could escape soon. “I am Russia. That is all I shall say. Now let go of me.”

He threw off their hands, glaring to each of them walked solidly to his door. He slammed it shut, locked it and took off his boots to get ready for bed. He paused in his undressing to catch the sound of a thud and the sound of feet running away. He frowned, shaking his head at the noise, and tuning out all of the rest.

Tuning out – he was doing a lot of that here, and it was only the first night.

The second day proved not that much better than the first. Arthur bragged on yet another tour of the place, but this time, he properly introduced the children. He started with Alfred first, something that Mathew frowned at but Alfred found worthy of beaming of.

“This is Alfred,” Arthur began. “I found him in this part of the New World, specifically. A pretty face, obedient most of the time, only a few mistakes in the beginning – mostly due to his prior caretaker’s horrible upbringing.” The reminder of a past caretaker made Alfred wince inwards, eyes flickering and almost immediately moist, hands tightened briefly, and smile twitching.

Mathew had smirked, but then it was his turn to be introduced to Ivan. He didn’t smile like Alfred, barely hid his distaste for Arthur as the Englishman put his hands on his shoulders. “This is Mathew. He’s a bit troublesome for me. France had said he was very well mannered but I’ve yet to see it, he slams doors and likes to swear at the maids in that awful language of France’s – I’m hoping to have him broken into a more dignified boy by the winter.”

Mathew made a disgusted face at the blatant insult of his prior caretaker. Alfred glanced at him and the older children glared at him instead. Arthur kept on, “Something else about these two – they only behave when I’m in the room. If I’m not, they bicker and try to fight, I’m not sure why. I like to think it’s because Alfred is helping me affirm the English superiority in the house.”

The powerful nation grinned, looking up to Ivan who didn’t give him the satisfaction of a hurt look or even a raised brow. “They’re interesting colonies,” was all he said. “Do well with them.”

“Oh I will,” Arthur replied, standing straighter. “I most definitely will.” He shooed the boys away, “Now, go on, I have business to take care of. Go study in your rooms. Mathew, I expect your room clean and your English homework done correctly, no French. Alfred, learn of your new spelling words.”

The children nodded but Ivan had seen from his angle the pair of crossed fingers behind Mathew’s back.

The meeting continued as normal without the children, Arthur boasted some more on his success and Ivan suffered through enough of it to bring up the treaty to fight the Ottomans. Arthur pretended to read the document, commenting several times on how Ivan could have reread it before his superiors had done the final draft, pointing out a grammatical mistake and other nonsense before putting the paper down and saying no.

“Why should I?” Arthur smirked, crossing his ankles, bouncing his foot. “How will you convince me to help?”

Ivan stared flatly at him, the least bit surprised. Oh how he wanted to punch the other so much, but no, he had to get help from the smug bastard. “What do you want?”

“What do you have to give?” Arthur replied. “What do you even have that’s of value, what do you have that I might want?”

Ivan said nothing, hands clenching some, as he fought to hold the insult back on his tongue. “Is that no, then?”

“You don’t think you have anything to trade for my help?” Arthur smirked. “I can think of a few.”

 Ivan didn’t give the opportunity to respond, about to open his mouth, when Alfred burst into the room, huffing for breath. “Mathew attacked another maid again. He was really mad and - oh, hello, Mr. Russia.”

A smile sent Ivan’s way, something the Russian did not return, and Arthur most certainly did not either.  He was almost visibly livid and ready to kill someone, “Alfred. Go to your room and do not come out until I say so.”

The little colony’s face dropped, his face paled as he cowardly shook and then nodded and ran away. Ivan assumed the meeting over as Arthur gave a hasty excuse and went to reprimand the rebellious child.

The Russian avoided everyone on his way to his rooms. He ignored the noise outside his hall and pretended to read. Pretending to read turned into actual reading turned into sleeping with a book on his face. His own snores woke him up as he started. Rubbing his face and re-shelving the book, he retired for bed.

The third day, Ivan came down to breakfast only to find Arthur and Alfred at the table. Mathew was not seated. He absentmindedly asked about it. Alfred winced, eyes darting to the empty seat beside him as Arthur answered calmly, “He said he didn’t feel like eating this morning.”

Ivan correctly assumed that the Englishman was making the boy go hungry until he surrendered. He said nothing to Arthur. It wasn’t his problem. He was only here for one more day as it was anyways. He wasn’t going to stir up trouble before he left.

Breakfast ended and he caught a surprising sight, Alfred was sneaking out of Mathew’s room, brushing off bread crumbs from his shirt. He saw Ivan and started, face full of fear, stammering an excuse. The Russian shook his head, “Hush. Comrades are loyal to one another.

With that, he disappeared into his room and read another English book until a maid was sent for him to speak on the final terms of his treaty for Arthur to aide him with the Ottomans. Of course, he already knew the answer from the day before, but when he came into the room, he had wished he hadn’t come at all.

“You want me to what?” Ivan asked again, baffled. No, he was more than baffled; he was on the verge to anger. How dare he -?

“I said, find him and sleep with him, use your body to make amends, end the war; especially if you’re desperate enough to come to me – and we’re not on exactly good terms, then again if you are desperate enough to lie with this country to end an attack on your people…”

He shrugged despite Ivan’s growing anger, “It’s not that hard to understand, really – “

“Have you lost your mind-” Ivan hissed.

Arthur was quick to spit back, “Have you lost yours? Lower your voice.”

Ivan snarled, “Go to Hell.”

“I’ll see you there first!” Arthur retorted, he was going back to huffing, he only did that when he was getting especially upset enough to start a fight. Such an arrogant and easily provoked man; a weak man in Russia’s opinion.

“You’re nothing but a snake then,” Ivan had crossed one leg over the other, straightening his back and steeling his facial expression. He wanted to watch every muscle in Arthur twitch in his face as he continued on a verbal slaughter.

“You’re nothing more than a worthless spineless leech on the backs of the others! You’ve sucked down on France, and for what? A colony that doesn’t even listen to you, let alone want to assimilate to your backwards politics?”  Although his tone brightened, it was meant in sarcasm, meant to redden Arthur’s face further in both anger and shame, if he was lucky. “Oh, let’s not forget about your shrunken Austria-Hungarian empire of a ‘friend’ – “

Arthur cut him off, he was returning Ivan’s scandalous accusations, sinking even a little further to drive it home. “Have you lain with Prussia yet? There’s a rumor going around and I wanted to hear it straight from the bastard’s mouth but he’s been running with his tail between his legs every time I see him. Are you the reason for that blond blue-eyed baby of his, how did you weasel that, I dare say, _old friend_?” Are you letting him taint your own bloodlines to keep up the façade of peace-?”

“You are a bastard,” Ivan said a moment later, he had tried very hard not to take personal offense but his relationship with the Germanic nation was a strained one for multiple reasons and not one that he liked to discuss out of specific private company. Arthur was nowhere near that exclusive circle.

“And you’re a whore,” Arthur put down his teacup and saucer, the tiny dish was cracked. “What else is new?”

A pause held thick in the room, the tension heavy enough to bear down on a weak man’s shoulders and paralyze him. The English nation was the first to break it, thankfully, since Ivan was about to throw the entire teapot at the imported Chinese rug to just put sound in the room.

“We’re done here, get your things and get out,” Arthur said, his tone was even and held a very clear underlying threat. “You leave as soon as possible – and Russia?”

Ivan raised a brow, eying the other nation cautiously. Arthur made sure he had the other’s complete attention for a good few moments before he continued, “Keep your hands off my colonies, I do not want your dirty hands near either of them. I have enough problems with France crying for Mathew and that brat acting out for him – I don’t need you putting the same influence over Alfred.”

“Well unlike you, I do not have to stoop to such low endeavors,” Ivan was almost smirking, brushing off his lap and setting his barely touched tea aside. Arthur was eying him steadily, daring him to continue. 

The Russian took the bait, “Because if I so wanted your colony so badly, you would have heard him eavesdropping at the door.”

A soft gasp on the other end and Arthur was practically livid. Before he could even scream out any number of indignant curses, Ivan was already up and out of the room, hearing the teapot crash at the door, Alfred some few feet from the door and covering his mouth. The poor child looked about ready to cry.

Ivan almost pitied him, but nonetheless, he kept moving. He wasn’t welcome in this land anymore by England’s sovereignty and he was out of a war aide as well, he would need to see if he could pull other strings then to solve this Turkish problem.


	18. The Dynasty of Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To live and die by one's nation is an honor, or so these Protectors were always led to believe. The world is much more complicated than that, always has been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #18: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: Teen / Prompt: Guardian/Protector AU. / WARNING: Supernatural beings, long backstories, mentioned FrUK and some minor angst. Unfinished longfic.

The first was Francis – the _Knight_. He could turn his body into indestructible material and light himself aflame with a form of alchemy - like the lover whom he’d lost long ago.  He carried super strength, although he was reluctant to use it. He was the Knight.

The Knight arose alongside his leader, Napoléon; with his demise, he lost his helmet – and later, his head in the public square when he made a bad deal with the wrong crown. The Knight was no more. The people believed him dead and gave his body a wondrous tomb. He was no aristocrat, just a man wanting to believe in someone. They could understand and relate his wish, mourning how they had unknowingly let savages take their White Knight away.

The second was the _Empress_ and they knew her by the name of Alice. She was made of natural beauty, raged fires and cried tidal waves with an immeasurable fury, created mountains with her footsteps, and had skin harder than the ice around her heart. She was the Empress.

Born of the Golden Age, she had gone recluse when the era ended and her beloved Queen had passed quietly in her rooms; while she had held her hand in her last moments, Alice hadn’t aged a day but the wonderful Queen she’d seen raised from birth had turned gray. With her Queen gone, she was the Watchdog no more and vanished back into the woods. No amount of summoning could bring their Eternal Empress back forth.

But then, a new war happened and it shook the Earth.

These two breathed a new form of life again, coming to their country’s aid in their old gowns and appearing before the public with a desire to lead their armies to victory.

The Knight broke the walls of his tomb, covered in dust and cobwebs, blue eyes glowing and filled with his will to live. He demanded to see their army while still reattaching his own head, commanding the public again while they were in shock, before he was sent off to the capital. He commanded attention, still in the armor that he’d been buried in, rust and blood and all. The silence he was awarded upon entering the streets was phenomenal. When he requested a horse, his wish was granted with only the best that could be produced from the whole country and then he was sent to where his country needed him. He was at the borders of Lorraine and Alsace by nightfall.

The Empress had arisen slowly. But the country folk felt her stir. The animals called for her and waited at the forests’ edge all day and night, all chanting in unison for her. Then, the trees stirred and the earth groaned. As days wore on, the public wondered if she had buried herself too deep and the world shrieked. The wood splintered in multiple directions, glass cracked and shattered as far as Wales, and the Thames River leaped from its bed and held itself in the air for several minutes before falling back down. She stormed to London in a tattered dress and everyone bowed before her feet. She demanded a royal’s battle armor and when one man dared to protest, she shut up with a slap so sound that the boy’s poor parents were said to have felt it. When she deemed herself ready for battle, she waited at the coast, peering at the waves and felt them speak and rustle at her command.

The Knight fought valiantly as the Empress commanded the waves to move as she stood on their surface. She pushed the submarines back, digging her heels into water. Those who watched said the cloud parted for them both and church goers everywhere said that God had given them an Angel to fight the war on their side.

But it was not enough.

The Knight was outnumbered and his horse slaughtered by new military tanks. He saw the men that he commanded being taken in large numbers, fired at and chased back into their countryside. He refused to back down; he was last seen as he was trying to push back the tanks physically, almost captured before he was forced to flee as his men returned for their angel.

The Empress drove her will into the waters but her voice in them was no match for the newer and stronger steel. She found herself fired upon and thrown back to land, where locals found her unconscious and her beautiful face cracked. They rushed her to the hospital, fearing the worst for both their Angel and their country.

The Knight became depressed as he walked back through the streets of his country, heart sinking as he bowed his heads. He did not deserve to meet their eyes. He silently begged God to give him back his strength, despite his past failure.

The Empress’ crack never healed and when the countryside mourned for her, the people found themselves in open tears, fearing that their Angel had been taken from them before she could save them. They asked God why she had failed.

 France was seized.

England was hurt.

The Knight’s armor dimmed, as he vainly tried to lead the soldiers to victory. It was stained black with the stench of gunpowder and red with the blood of men he hadn’t been able to save.

The Empress could barely stand among the bombings as she struggled to counter the bombs dropped upon her soil. The crack deepened and she screamed in agony when the rubble nearly consumed her.

Then, as the sky darkened, tragedy struck even further as people on both sides feared for their lives.

A new face appeared upon the chest board.

The giant called himself Ivan and his leader threw the giant tank of a man into the path of bullets and tanks. Everyone held their breath.

Ivan held strong.

Dressed in the average uniform, he was the _Solider_. He bent back the new metal with his bare hands and shook the very ground with his footsteps. His wrists and ankles bore chains to keep him in line, weighing him down terribly and making his pace slow to match the soldiers he marched with. His gaze drove deep into those who met his eyes, commanding their surrender under only his pure will. He would raise his hand from the scars that littered his body and thick waves of sound would slice through more than a thousand obstacles in his way. He felt nothing and for that, his leader considered him the ticket to victory. But Ivan seemed only preoccupied with getting the threat out of Soviet territory. He didn’t care for anything else.

When the Soldier was placed onto the field, the tides of battle changed. The Knight was found with renewed vigor and able to fight again; he beat back the enemy a few hundred miles and established a standstill where he fought to keep it that way. The Empress shrieked and a bomb was reflected back to the plane that had carried it; she commanded the waves and this time, they replied and crushed the foreign submarines that had dared to enter her waters.

The Soldier halted at the edge of his territory, grunting, having to be forced to be told to keep marching. Meanwhile, the Knight fought another few miles back into France and the Empress summoned a wave under an enemy fleet that swallowed every one of their men whole only to spit them out and into a whirlpool.

The leaders met together, bringing with them their Angels, for a meeting.

The Empress met the Knight, and a story goes that a rose bloom and burned into flames through their dirty faces and matched gaze.

The Soldier could not fit into his chair and chose to stand, glaring down upon everyone. 

Plans were made and demanded to follow but no one could be made to agree. Their Angels tried to reason with their leaders to let them lead, but no one wanted to risk their ultimate weapon – and then a new voice spoke up for the first time in the entire meeting. He asked two small children to come out of hiding from behind him where uproar broke out.

The Soldier had leapt at the one of the children, his leader barely having time to bark at him to get back, and then time stood still. One child blinked and then grew to the size of a grown man nearly equal to the Soldier’s size, an immense feat – his body now covered in stainless steel as he held back the brute force that had dared to challenge him. The Soldier pushed but the morphed child did not falter.

The child pushed and the Soldier remained in his place, neither side budging, until the second child pulled at his leg, tugging on his pants like any child would for attention.

The first child grunted and then shifted his weight, kicking out his right leg to knock the Soldier off his feet and into the ground. He shrunk back to this previous state, holding the other child’s hand tightly and murmuring something into his ear.

Their leader called them back and they huddled over to him, before fighting to get on his lap and be a part of the attention.

The Soldier was commanded up but he rose too quickly and stumbled, and it was found that one of the several links that kept him weighed was broken. One child snickered and his leader scolded him. When an explanation was demanded, the leader could only give a shortened statement that no one believed.

The twins had not come to him at first. Rather one appeared on an Indian reservation with a young woman, the other appearing in Canada but somehow, they had felt each other and disappeared from their previous homes. Apart, they are only of half their strength, but together, they make a force to be feared. He told of how Alfred, the one who had challenged the Soldier, had picked up a car and then tossed it aside when he had been spooked at its car horn. Mathew, the taller child and more quiet, had yet to verbally speak directly with anyone else, but he was highly intelligent for what they assumed was his age; he had shown great telekinetic ability, able to move entire structures with his mind.

When pressed for what they could do while separated from their assumed duo, their leader halted. He said that he did not know; they had learned this rule the hard way. The children did not like to be more than a few feet apart. He said Alfred had broken walls with his fights to be with the other and Mathew had blown out a room door with his mental fury. No one had tried to separate them after that to test their abilities on their own. Since their reunification, they were inseparable.

When Empress spoke up and asked why Mathew had not been represented by a Canadian leader, she started and barked at the child when he looked at her with a glare so cold that she had felt her blood freeze in her veins. When asked to reveal why she looked so shaken, she claimed that Mathew had spoken to her, through telepathy.

_I belong to no man or country_.

That cemented one argument but opened dozens more. The meeting was ended two hours later than planned with nothing close to resolved. The leaders made to leave, their respective Angels going to follow behind when Alfred opened his mouth, “Mathew said sorry, miss.”

The Empress dared to look back, meeting both boys’ eyes and finding them sincere. She managed a smile, nodding back and accepting his apology. Alfred grinned while Mathew did a small nod and smile of his own. The Soldier grunted, pushing past her to catch back up with his leader, earning the distasteful frown of those present. He was obviously bitter.

The Knight tried to offer the Empress a rose and she scoffed, marking it open up and try to bite his nose, thorny vines encompassing his arm. The dramatic rejection made the boys laugh, something that the Empress took a liking to hear.

In the week that the inhuman beings all lived under one roof with their leaders to try and figure out their plans of action, several things took place. The Empress took a liking to the boys, the children returning her affections, her leader remarking that this was the happier that she had ever been seen besides the stories he had heard of her before her beloved Queen’s demise.

The Knight tried to romance her again and it was found that Mathew could change faces to reflect emotions. He had looked to be starting a game of peek-a-boo and then promptly ripped his face off to bestow a horrific image of a demon so startling that the Knight had drawn his sword and promised him a quick death if he apologized. Alfred and the Empress had turned around and the temperature of the room changed, both darting a look at Mathew and Alfred replying, “He said he don’t want no trouble so leave him alone.”

While the Empress remained composed, the boy looked ready to pick a fight if he had to; the Knight snarled and sheathed his sword.

The Soldier did not take his eyes off of Alfred the entire time, his face twitched sometimes when the boy looked at him. But there were no repeats of the day prior.

Days for the boys were often spent with the Empress as she entertained them by making flowers bloom right before their eyes. She laughed at their squeals and claps, juggling little pebbles and spelling their names in the veins of leaves. She let them braid her long blonde hair and she made them crowns of local flowers on little woodland walks to keep them entertained and out of their leader’s hair. She acted as a form of a mother for them, sometimes creeping to her room to be told stories until it was deemed too late for them to be awake.

But then, a strange thing was discovered about the boys.

Neither one of them slept.

Even after the boys were herded back into their rooms, Alfred would be heard trying to stifle his giggles as Mathew seemingly told stories without ever opening his lips. At one instance at being too loud at night, it was later seen as a bad idea to have put the volatile being next to the children he didn’t seem to like, as the Soldier was roused from sleep by a loud thump next to his room. He had rose from bed, marching to the other room and along with several servants, witnessed glowing Mathew with bright eyes as various furniture and Alfred included floated and spun around in the room. Even the bed was levitating as the glowing boy concentrated – but upon seeing the crowd at his open door, his eyes ceased to glow and the furniture abruptly dropped to the floor. Alfred briefly shrieked and morphed quickly into an adult form to catch his fall; he shut the door on their uninvited guests.

The giggles resumed not even a second later.

The morning after led to stern scolding from their leader, for which Alfred spoke up and admitted to the game having been his idea and for Mathew to be spared. Their leader only reluctantly did so, but promised the both boys punishment if they were bad guests again. After that, the nights were relatively quiet, but the Alfred continued to whisper and one night, there was singing.

It didn’t sound like him and many assumed it was a maid or something, until the Knight felt a stir in his heart and found himself looking out the window and seeing various woodland creatures outside the manor. He tried to usher them back to their territory, but the spell that the creatures were under would not allow him. The animals did not come on their will, but were summoned, no matter what they were doing – evidence being the wolf with its bloodstained muzzle.

The Knight waited a moment and then went to disturb the boys when he believed one of them to be the source behind the odd scenario, but the song ended before he had even reached the steps leading up to the porch. There was the sound of combined various growling and he slowly turned.

Every creature was looking upon him with rabid red eyes, a thick black substance drooling from their mouths. He stomped and the earth rumbled but did not budge, as if something else was holding it down. When the first animal leapt, he had come aflame and drew his sword to slaughter the coyote. He felt her head turn and look to the top window of the boys’ room.

Mathew was looking at him and he looked unhappy about something. 

The Knight kept his attention on him for a moment longer and then the boy vanished from sight; a moment later, a bear burst forth from the woods and knocked aside other animals, roaring and charging for him.

The Knight glanced back and saw nothing. He swung his blade, eyes widening as it turned suddenly to ash. He grunted as the bear collided with him, snarling and snapping its jaws at his hardened skin. He saw blood and the black substance run together as the bear broke teeth in its manic attempts to devour.

The Knight grunted, shielding his face before delivering a sound blow that threw the bear several feet from him and in a lifeless heap.

The other animals did not stir, staring at him, eyes blank and seemingly soulless.

The Knight braced himself.

Only for the animals to suddenly keel over, dead. Or in the case of one chipmunk, it was left to slowly choke to death on the thick, black liquid still pouring from its mouth.

The Knight felt anxious, as if someone was watching him. He glanced at where his sword had once been; it was now not even ash, but a puddle of the black liquid. It was smoking and an acrid smell burned his nose.

He dashed back inside the house before anything else could pounce on him.

Morning brought him back to being face-to-face with the child to have attempted to kill him. The Empress and Alfred looked sickly, bags under his eyes, and struggling to stay awake under his exhaustion. Mathew looked angry as he stabbed his bowl of oatmeal with his spoon.

The bowl cracked and his leader began to open his mouth, when Alfred rounded on the other, shoulders shaking under some unknown force, and then promptly slapped the poor boy out of his chair.

The boys’ leader attempted to break up the fight, but was unable. An invisible bubble kept him out, pulsating with a red energy that seemed to be radiating from Alfred. The child was screaming, but his voice could not be heard outside of the bubble, as he took up Mathew’s collar and yelled in his face. He was livid, face turning colors in his rage and at one point, his form blinked out and there was an older form choking the smaller boy.

Only the Empress rose to try and break the bubble, the Knight and Soldier exchanging looks. Their leaders watched with heavy silence and fear, as Alfred’s form continued to switch back and forth as he beat the other boy. At one point, when Mathew was nearly blue in the face, as the Empress had finally found a way to guide her fingers to breach the bubble and was pulling it apart, Alfred’s form changed again.

It wasn’t even human.

The Empress was blown back onto the table, knocking it over, as the others flew back into the wall. The entire building shuddered.

The bubble had broken with a high pitched shattering blast and Mathew was on the floor, face-down and breathily shallowly. The being that had to have been Alfred was standing over him and breathing heavily. His new form caused a ringing in everyone’s ringing and left all but the Soldier unable to lift their heads or even blink.

The Soldier strained to rise under the immense pressure, his chains vibrating and then a second link broke. The weight crunched the wood that it fell upon. Then, the Soldier was vibrating and his form wisped over to Alfred’s form and yanked on what had to be his neck. Alfred’s head did not turn from Mathew so the Soldier yanked again and this time, the boy’s form changed.

Alfred was held limply by the back of his neck, unconscious. Mathew sat up, frowning at his hands and then he was crying. He grabbed his hair, bowing over, rocking himself in his kneeling position. The Empress didn’t stir from the broken table, a new crack appearing at her brow. The Soldier did not move, did not change his grip. The Knight stood and addressed the boys’ leader, gaze cold, “Gather your things and get out. Those children are too dangerous.”

The leader looked at the sobbing Mathew, the limp Alfred and how the Empress had yet to regain consciousness. Then, he gravely nodded. He stumbled to his feet, gathering Mathew in his arms and trying to take Alfred only for the Soldier to shake his head and gesture for the boys’ leader to lead the way. Though the leader was uneasy, he knew there was no way he would be able to argue with the other and live to tell about it.

By mid-afternoon, the boys and their leader were gone. The Empress was awake to see them leave, those around her feeling a form of pity for her as she watched the children that she had come to enjoy leave her. The Knight had tried to put a hand on her shoulder and found a spike shot from the Earth, pointed at his heart. The Empress looked back at him, her eyes back to cold stones. She didn’t want anyone’s pity.

When she stormed back up the steps to the building, the Soldier grunted and moved aside to let her past. If she was grateful, she didn’t show it.

At the week’s end, the leaders and their respective Angels separated.

The Empress stood among her royals and shook her hand at the meeting’s effectiveness. She knelt and asked for forgiveness, when they asked for her to stand, her crown saw the new crack upon her face and called for an explanation. Their Angel refused to answer and the leader whom had gone with her on the meeting spoke up. At his words, their crown became indignant. The Empress’ hands were said to have been shaking with some emotion, but she stormed out before she was dismissed.

::::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler 'cos I doubt I'll ever get to finish this; Ivan (the Soldier) does have feelings for Alfred, but doesn't act on them because it is not a fight/battlefield as he has been conditioned to think/respond to things. Alfred has no such regards for holding back, but when he does confess, Ivan rejects him despite feeling the same - from then, they cannot work together. Alfred refuses to become his next form around Ivan, pointedly remaining a child around the 'Soldier' and making Ivan uncomfortable. That's p much it.


	19. The Last October

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been years since their first meeting, when the other had been nothing but a young boy, but now was the time for Alfred to emerge once again. He could come forth from the fall colors to walk amongst the living…But the Fall Nymph was in a shock: the mortal he had fallen for…wasn’t even the same man anymore… In theory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #19: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: Teen / Prompt: Fall Nymph/Werewolf AU. / WARNING: Idolization, implied character deaths and reincarnation. Mild violence, some disturbing themes and scenes, blood and insanity, language and some underage drinking. Nothing really explicit (as of now).

> The great clock in the middle of town square rang out: Midnight.
> 
> It was the night of the fall Equinox, August twenty-second.

Alfred was about to come forth, he could feel it, as his eyes opened slowly, the roots and stems over them pulling away by the magic that kept him alive. It was Fall again. He could walk freely again, without having to worry about being out after sunset. The wolves wouldn’t be able to catch him; they would be too occupied with the Fall festivities of Halloween and celebrating another year alive on this wretched Plane.

The Fall Nymph groaned inside of his tree, feeling the tree’s ties to his fingertips begin to pull away and resettle back into the truck. Alfred raised and rolled his neck from its previous bowed position. It cracked, and Alfred shook his head of the leaves and foliage that had settled over the years and seasons past.

It was time to arise, to greet the world of the Living.

Alfred did not smile; instead his face was devoid of emotion and warmth. It was time to find the boy who had led his Slumber into being, after he was stolen away. It was time to find the one; someone as valuable to the Supernatural World as him. It was time to see Ivan again.

The Nymph tried to rise, kicking away and hurrying the tree’s detachments from him. His skin felt nasty, and he saw the old red stains on him and wrinkled his nose. There were some chips of white on the floor, all around him and scattered bones, with more splashed blood. Alfred shook his head. He never understood why intruders tried to come into his tree, if they knew the magic would kill them.

 _Never mind that_ , he told himself, _just hurry up and get up_. For the next few months, Alfred would only come back to the tree for shelter against the cold, if he didn’t have another “normal” home nearby. He wouldn’t have to go back into Slumber near the start of Winter again, unless he was critically hurt.

All he would have to do to survive the Season would be to avoid the wolves and fangs and those damned annoying Sprites. Leeches they were, those Sprites, they stuck to Nymphs for protection, in exchange for their blessings on their tree.

Like Alfred needed a pixie-winged fool who couldn’t pick up a stick to protect himself, to protect his tree.

Groaning as he began his trek upwards through the tree, feeling its strength seep through the inner wood and smiling as he planted a soft kiss to the inner rings. He loved this tree, for all of its faults and strengths. He had lived in it for more than a millennia, and knew that if he could that he would restore the tree’s biological clock to keep it his.

He just had to watch out for woodpeckers. They tended to act as God-awful alarm clocks, and Alfred was starting to wonder if the things could tell the difference between a termite and a magical being residing in the tree…

The Fall Nymph’s fingers rose higher and steadily higher, until finally they reached the last end of inner steps. Alfred seized in a breath, as he hoisted himself up, and then tried to break through the magical barrier. The air lit with air and yellow sparkles, tingling his skin as it morphed his appearance to look like an average human.

Or at the very least, an attractive one: His hair was gracious and eye-catching sight of wheat-colored silk, and his skin was one of a slight tan, similar to his natural cream-wood skin. He had taken to placing a freckle, similar to his ring spot, under his eye. His eyes went from an otherworldly and glowing orange to a soft blue to match the sky.

Before he fully emerged himself, Alfred took in the sights of the city. Even though it was midnight, they were still people up and about, so he tried to guess how long he had been asleep. A year, maybe two? But after his eyes ran up the clock, it was not even close to what he remembered! It was digital! He found that he had slept longer than he had originally thought…

It was a year called twenty-twelve. He had gone to sleep in eighteen-twelve; he had slept for over two hundred years.

Nothing was the same. They were no more carriages, only fast moving cars and people talking on little glowing devices. They were all moving so fast, so much faster than he remembered. No one was even looking at him.

He took advantage of it, and swiped a glance at how one male was dressed: A bronze-colored sweater with a darker red scarf under a brown jacket; a pair of dark brown pants and dark boots.

Committing the image to his mind and feeling magic twitch the foliage around him to better suit the attire of the current times, Alfred climbed out of the tree’s unseen magical hole. He blinked at the neon lights, seeing how quickly time had allowed humans to progress.

Alfred sat in the branches of the tree, one boot propped up against a branch as he just sat and just took in the changes. He would need to blend in with the times, but first things first, he knew. He ducked out of sight, and back into his hole. He checked something, and then the Nymph was off into the night of bustling humans.

He had taken the small torn fabric of an old and possibly forgotten pink scarf.

Alfred walked into the home of one of his old friends.  Arthur Kirkland, the usually stiff English witch whom had ran to the Americas after the witch trials in England. He dressed like he was in a more modern Victorian era sort of style, but he had his moments of blending in as a punk, but his voice told the wiser ones where he had come from and just a hint as to how old he truly was. He lived in the quiet and peaceful countryside, in a nice well off house, with his occasional brothers and one sister.  Witches in a family often stayed as their own coven to increase chances of survival.

Alfred had come to him for information, and Arthur had filled him in and given him a few things for him to get by in exchange for Alfred talking to and reviving the fields behind his house to keep out the fangs that had been prowling on his property.

Arthur had thanked him, and then said Alfred was welcome to come back to his house until their kitsune friend, Kiku, could get Alfred into the human system. Alfred had agreed. It would only be a few days. He wasn’t in so much of a rush. Well, not really for his “identity” to put through, but to at least find what remained of the boy that had saved him so long ago…

Arthur sat the Nymph at the large country table, and placed a porcelain cup of crushed maple leaves in a glass of loam-laced water. Arthur took a sip of the hot tea in his own cup, not even minding much as Alfred chomped nosily on his leaves.

Then, the English witch blurted, “…Have you seen the –?”

Alfred stopped eating, and then sighed, “Yeah. There are more of them now. But I haven’t seen Mattie yet.” Arthur’s face saddened, and he saw the Nymph look out to the dark night outside. He tried to comfort the other, “We’ll find him, Al. He…” He paused, biting his lip with slightly pointed teeth, “I’m sure he’s well…”

Alfred nodded. He could only hope so. He took another leave into his mouth without further comment, other than a murmured, “Hm.”

Arthur was silent, and for a moment, besides the ticking of multiple clocks in unison, and the mewling of the one cat that Arthur had spelled to keep by his side, there was the distant laughter and the bay of wolves.

Arthur’s eyes flashed a brighter emerald, as Alfred’s nails grew an inch and then retreated as his irises briefly took on an orange hue. Arthur’s mouth was a thin line, as he said, “And you’re sure that those heathens can’t come through?”

Alfred looked to the window, out to the wooded area, where he was sure he saw a pale and another blonde fang snarling at him. They almost seemed familiar. But then again, to Alfred, nearly fang and werewolf were the same. They were only after his skin and blood, anyways. The Nymph felt his eyes glow brighter, as he said, “Positive. Unless the groups come together, then they can’t break down the foliage. Fangs can’t break any of the Old spells of magic, and wolves don’t like complex enchantments.”

The Nymph looked to the witch, “Both of which my spell contains. We’ll be fine.”

Arthur nodded, and then made a small sigh of relief, “Finally. I was basically living day by day, before you emerged, Alfred. Those fangs,” he spat, glaring at the specific blonde fang still present at the edge of the wood and his partners coming behind him. “They’ve been trying to corner me for the past decade. Your old spell was broken.”

Alfred spun on his heel, his stare between the blonde and red-eyed fang broken, “What? It was broken? How?”

Arthur blinked, wondering how the other hadn’t known, but then remembered he had been forced into Slumber from his wounds prior to Winter. “It was by something…I haven’t found out what, though…”

Alfred frowned, and the eyed the fangs outside the window. The blond was grinning, but the red-eyed one looked uneasy. “Arthur,” the Nymph began, “We should probably sleep in the earth tonight. Me specifically.”

The blond fang was walking along the edge of the wood, and his grin was getting bigger. He looked like he was laughing. Alfred shut the curtains, as Arthur asked, “Why?”

Alfred was already going to shut the other curtains and lock the windows as he went, as he said, “I think they’re planning something. We should be careful the first night, with me being close to the ground in case the foliage weakens in any direction.”

Arthur nodded, and then stopped. “But what about –?”

Alfred cut him off, “We’ll worry about it, later. Later,” the Nymph paused as his hand went to the back of his head. His eyes went slightly wide, and his cheeks dusted slightly. “And uh,” he said, as he turned to the English witch looking confused as he put his teacup into the sink, “Could you cut my hair? It grew, while I slept.”

Arthur gave him a thin smile, “Sure, you git.”

“Don’t call me that,” Alfred protested, “I do know what that means now.” Arthur merely laughed, as he went about and left the room in search of his scissors. Alfred followed, after chancing a look to peek outside the window.

The fangs were gone, but he knew they would not be for long, fangs never gave up a challenge to sample and drain exotic prey.

* * *

 

_Bare feet thumping on the dirt road, a chorus of angry human and snarling dogs at his and another’s heels. Mathew’s, his little brother Mattie, heels; they were chasing him too. Even though Mathew was nothing more than a half breed of a Nymph, had been raised human for a majority of his life; he was related to Alfred, and Alfred had been accused of kidnapping a human boy._

_A human boy by the name of Ivan; said boy being in Alfred’s arms, bleeding out from being jumped by wolves targeting Alfred. Ivan was breathing heavily, his usually bright violet eyes now darkening in death, even as he fought._

_“Al! They’re not letting up!” Mathew shouted over the madness, trying to keep up with his supernatural brother. It wasn’t his fault that his mother had been a human. But the disadvantages of his heritage made living difficult. His chest hurt, his breathing was becoming more labored and his feet were hurting. He couldn’t keep on much longer. But they needed somewhere safe to hide._

_“I can see that!” Alfred snapped, but glared back at the orbs of lit torches in the distance. He cursed, looking around. He could smell the humans’ dogs, hear the laughing werewolves, and imagine the fangs licking their lips in anticipation._

_But Alfred wouldn’t do down without a fight._

_He took Mathew’s hand, “Come on! This way!” The trio ran off in a different direction, trying to stay ahead, and going through as many rivers and water bodies as possible. They needed for the majority of those chasing them to lose their scent. It would be the only way that the Nymphs and child would be able to pass through the night with enough blood and life in their bodies to survive. But Ivan felt like he was growing heavier and yet lighter at the same time, his eyes bringing forth tears and lips mouthing groans of pains. Time was running out._

_Alfred saw the tree up ahead and nearly felt his heart leap for joy. Well, that is until he saw the wolves surrounding and prowling all around it, and the fangs tapping their fingers against its bark. Alfred growled, throwing Mathew behind him and yet close to his side. Ivan remained in his arms._

_“Move, vermin,” the Nymph growled, but the wolves snarled back and the fangs laughed and hissed at his command. Alfred was no match for them all, in his condition. Being nearly burned at a stake would do that to you, along with running for miles with major blood loss. The Nymph couldn’t even take a newborn fang doused with holy water, if he wanted to. He was that weak._

_“Why, Nymph,” one of the fangs spoke, as it walked around him. It was looking for an opening that Alfred refused to give. “We only want a little taste of you and your blood,” the fang nodded to Mathew, who gulped but tried to appear strong with his little chestnut dagger._

_“We want the boy that you carry with you,” one of the wolves demanded, a blond with an ancient accent, “We will keep him safe for you, but he will die with you. You cannot raise a wolf, Nymph, hand him over.”_

_Alfred said nothing, and did not move. The fangs came closer and the wolves closed in. Alfred growled, trying to appear threatening as he tried to call forth the trees. But few were still awake to hear his call. Winter was too close for his powers to be in full effect, but it pained him nonetheless to hear only a few trees respond to his summons._

_He was nearly powerless._

_And then came the voices of the humans once more, their anger ringing out loud and clear. The fangs hissed and drew back some, but their leader made a grab for Mathew. The younger half breed Nymph made an attempt to stab the hand, but it only landed him being snatched as he opened his back. Alfred saw too late, their other creatures’ motive._

_They were going to separate them all._

_Mathew was snatched first, leading Alfred to turn and open his own back to snap a Winter-weakened vine. One fang lost an arm that shriveled to dust on the ground, but then the wounded Nymph was jumped by a small pack of the wolves present._

_His shoulder was bitten, but that wasn’t what made him cry out. It was when he felt the weight in his arms be stolen away. Ivan groaned, as his face full of fear and pain as he was tossed to a female, and then vanished from Alfred’s sight._

_Fangs grabbed the Nymph’s feet and laughed, as they drew him to his beloved tree, screaming. Vines were snapping at everyone, as Alfred shouted and swore and cried and screamed. Mathew was being dragged away, kicking and screaming and crying out for the one person that he knew to look past his human heritage to the strong-willed and possible Nymph prodigy underneath the mask of shy and beaten flesh._

_“Al!” Mathew called, Ivan’s crying was still heard in the distance, as was the angry villagers; Alfred was struggling against the snarling and biting fangs and wolves trying to stow him away in his tree. “Al! Don’t leave me!”_

_“Matt!” Alfred called back, trying to push past a fang trying to lick his chin for a pulse and purring. “Mattie, hold on, damn it – let me go! Mattie!”_

_“Al!” Mathew called again, as a shadow rose up behind him, and then Alfred screamed, as a fang bit into his neck and tried to fall with him into his tree. More fangs and wolves followed, and then a deep humming began to shake the very ground as the tree’s magic tried to attack its intruders._

_Too late, Mathew looked behind him to see a fang whack him and knock him unconscious, ending his screams for help. The half breed was kissed on every part of exposed skin available to fang lips, as they stealthily vanished into the surrounding woods, their evil laughter ringing out into the air._

_Meanwhile, Alfred’s tree suddenly glowed red at its core, and then a series of screams and howls were heard. The tree’s magical hole sealed shut, blood coming forth from its roots as the intruders inside the tree were killed brutally by the magic bestowed within the tree._

_Alfred felt roots stretch out to wrap around his wounded body, warmth coming from the tree as the intruders were taken care of. He tried not to look. But he caught a few glimpses, between the leaves and roots coming to wrap over him like a coffin._

_A fang was screaming, a root spring up from her belly, but she was being held down. Her back never touched the floor, bus her limps were all forced down in unnatural curves and points. Several bones looked broken, and the tree was showing no mercy as it tore into her body. The fang was even openly crying tears of blood, crying for help to the fangs trying to escape the tree’s wrath. But they could not escape. The tree could let no intruder survive._

_Alfred saw wolf’s jaw being forcefully opened, a root diving down its throat and thick red blood immediately shooting forth like a shower of rain. The jaw was broken, and the wolf was still alive and howling in pain. Alfred tried to shut his eyes, but his body shook as he felt the tingles of Slumber coming forth._

_The Nymph tried to fight the instinctual urge to sleep. He didn’t want to sleep. He had to fight. He had to save his little brother from the bastardly fangs. He had to save Ivan from the barbarian wolves. He had to…He had to…_

* * *

 

The Nymph was startled awake from his nightmare, the crackle of his power making the bricks of Arthur’s basement groan. Alfred regained his calm slowly, as he gripped his head and tried to hold back the sobs. His head hurt, his mind was going faster than he could truly comprehend any thought tossed at him, and he couldn’t feel his chest. The house continued to groan.

A small shift of dust came, and then the sweet touch of something earthy and cool graced his skin. Alfred lifted his head, opened his eyes and saw a thin root pressing gently to his lips. The Nymph smiled and kissed back. The root sparkled, and Alfred whispered, “Thank you…”

With a small ‘kiss’ to his forehead, the root disappeared back into the earth, further into the ground, possibly never to be seen again. Alfred lay in the dark, afterwards, feeling better now that some nature had reached out to him, but still feeling the nagging worry in his heart.

Did Mathew know the sweet touch of a motherly tree? Had the fangs killed him or made him live as their blood toy? Could Ivan had lived among the wolves, or was he dead too?

Shaking his head sadly, and pressing his hand into the earth to feel the warm soil run through his fingers, Alfred tried to let the essence of the nearby trees soothe him. Their old and ancient lullabies spelled him back into a light doze to be called sleep, but not Slumber. It was perfect, just what he needed.

When the Nymph awoke, it was dawn. Feeling much better, the being said sweet words to the ground, and felt a small root snap at him in being flattered. Laughing, a bright-hearted and twinkling chime in the air, the magical being strolled out of the basement to where he could smell something being made in Arthur’s kitchen.

“Good morning,” Alfred greeted, upon seeing Arthur out of his normal attire and dressed for the more modern world. The witch turned around from the pan, and nodded and threw the greeting back. Fortunately for Alfred, the witch was not cooking but was making a small spell.

“What spell is that for?” Pointing to the small handful of green leaves that had Alfred feeling the faint pangs of hunger; the witch raised a brow and then tossed an unused bundle. Alfred gratefully took them and munched on the first leaf and found it to be bitter. He made a face.

Arthur grinned. “What you’re eating is Wolfgang. I’m not surprised you don’t like it,” he continued as Alfred put it down and frowned down on the plant. “It’s used to keep wolves in submission, once caught; it makes them vulnerable in a sense. I’m just prepping a few before I leave for work.”

The Nymph nodded, trying to store that information for later use. He had only known of a few plants to get a werewolf to bow to someone other than their Alpha. The plant was powerful, even if it tasted bad. Eying it again, Alfred gingerly touched another leaf. He plucked it, and then tried to hastily chew it and swallow. It still left his mouth bitter, and he gagged.

Arthur laughed from his side of the table, “I’m not sure if it will work that way, love. Better luck next time, there’s some toadstools hanging to your left and some old birch bark that I leave hanging for when you visit.”

The Nymph immediately sought out the much better tasting food, eying the birch bark with sudden interest. “You have bark for me? Birch? At this time of the year?” The Nymph was staring at the witch, incredulously, wondering why he had gone through so much trouble when he was obviously having a problem with dangerous enemies prowling around his property.

Arthur hid a blush by going to his little vials on the table to find an empty one. He cursed when he didn’t find one readily on the table, and had to go to his shelf to retrieve one. “Well, I-I have some time to myself, and Mitten can more than take on a fang if we so wish it, why had I never heard such a foul word to come forth from thou mouth, Alfred, why I would dare say that thou –“

“Arthur,” Alfred interrupted and said Englishman paused, having not even heard himself. He sighed, and then spun on his booted heels to look the Nymph in the eyes. His green eyes were sad. “It’s been almost two hundred years, Alfred. I missed you, alright?”

The witch’s shoulders slumped, and it was obvious that Arthur had gone through more pain than he let show. Alfred immediately crossed the floor, to hold the smaller frame close, feeling worse, as the witch continued, “I was alone and terrified for decades, even when I kept calling and calling you. The trees tried to call you, but you never answered. They missed you, my garden missed your hands, and I’ve never seen Mitten happier than you pluck a rose and braid the thorns to make her a crown.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Alfred said, rubbing a hand through Arthur’s hair and feeling more than hearing the witch’s hitched breath when the Nymph’s fingers brushed his scalp. “I’m sorry, but I’ll make everything better. I promise. You won’t have to call for me again. I’ll be right here. Just follow where the trees point and you’ll find me. I promise not to leave you alone, like I did before. I won’t let them take you too.”

Arthur hugged him back, murmuring against the other’s chest, “I know you won’t. The last time was not even of your own free will…” Alfred wished those words were to be true, because he knew in his heart that had he been stronger, he could stolen away from the Old magic to save what he had cared the most for…

The Nymph bit his lip. He was not comfortable. It was a tight fit, and he could feel himself hyperventilating. It was also too warm. Too hot. He felt like his chest was constricting himself just to remain in the hole. He wanted to be free more than anything. But doing this was going to make Arthur happy again. So he would do it. For Arthur.

Even if the car was anything but his place of comfort.

“Alfred, please,” Arthur said from behind the wheel, as he turned on another corner. “It’s not that bad. You are over exaggerating this.” There was a yellow light, and without even glancing at the other passenger, the witch pressed the gas pedal a little more to run the light before it turned red. He barely made it, and upon getting closer to the street that was some more away from his destination, he turned to Alfred. They were at a red light.

“Alfred, really, stop making that face,” the witch snapped. “You look like ridiculous.” Said Nymph barely acknowledged the other, besides frowning and trying to relax. But right as he made to calm himself down, the light was green again, and Arthur was speeding his little Jeep as fast as he lawfully could. Alfred braced himself, eyes going wide and flashing a brief orange. He snarled at Arthur, but the witch paid no mind as he floored the Jeep and somehow managed to avoid getting pulled over by several police cars stationed throughout the street.

“Your driving sucks,” Alfred complained, and Arthur shrugged. The witch was really enjoying himself far too much. Right as Alfred was about to beg for them to stop so that he could feel the earth beneath him and remind himself that trees were stationary and wouldn’t fly down any road nearly a fraction as Arthur had just done; the Jeep was pulled to a sudden stop in front of a downtown apothecary or as it called in modern times:  a herbal pharmacy.

The bell above the door ringed out to the inside, and the shop owned turned from arranging several small jars on her shelves. The halo of vibrant red curly mass of hair, and the army of freckles swarming over her face and bringing out her olive tinted eyes; her name was Arlene.

Her face brightened upon seeing Arthur, opening her arms to come around her counter. Her Southern accent dripped honey sweet, as she said, “Arthur, baby, how ya doin’ today? I haven’t seen you in a good minute, whatcha need from this old hag?”

Before Arthur could do more then hug the small woman back, Alfred had appeared, and Arlene’s attention had done a full turn. She fluffed her hair, blushing and tried to flatten any creases from her apron along with brushing stray herbs from its fabric. “And uh, Arthur, baby, who’s your friend?”

Arthur looked behind him to see Alfred eying Arlene with interest.  It only took a small fraction of a minute before Arthur remembered, and then proceeded to gently push Arlene back behind the counter.  
Oh no, we are not having baby number four. I think your nest if full, thank you. Go back to your work, troll.”

Arlene huffed, miffed, as she used an elongated nail to try and swipe at Arthur’s cheek. Indeed, she was a troll, but she was a proud one…who had trouble with keeping a husband. In only a decade, she had lost two husbands, had two children, had a boyfriend and then gotten a third baby. She had done better with Arthur around, however, but it would seem all the progress was going to be for naught. Trolls and Nymphs tended to act friendly with other in nature.

Maybe bringing Alfred here to the apothecary to Arlene, was a bad idea.

Arthur avoided Arlene’s hand, and continued to push her along. The troll was about ready to make a fuss, but her pride held her in check. She didn’t want to embarrass herself, or get hit by whatever Arthur had on him. The witch always kept some spell on him for anything.

Once she had taken his hand to show him the new chamomile she had gotten in, and right as she touched him, she hit the dead floor with a thud. As it would turn out, the wolves had gotten into Arthur’s garden so he had taken to making paralysis charms. Unfortunately, the ones strong enough to work on wolves, worked equally well on the ever resistant trolls. Arlene hadn’t been too happy about that.

“So, what can I do ya for?” Putting a small wink into her words for Alfred, Arthur sighed and walked away, deciding to let Nature take its course. The witch let the Nymph flirt the troll into a fierce and adoring blush, as he checked over the several shelves.

Whistling a small tune to himself, and enjoying the small piano music that Arlene filled her store with, the witch enjoyed the new stock of coriander and some elder. He was surprised at the elder though, but it was a good surprise.

:::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfinished longfic that could be finished later.


	20. The Last October: Smut Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been years since their first meeting, when the other had been nothing but a young boy, but now was the time for Alfred to emerge once again. He could come forth from the fall colors to walk amongst the living…But the Fall Nymph was in a shock: the mortal he had fallen for…wasn’t even the same man anymore… In theory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #20: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: Mature / Prompt: Fall Nymph/Werewolf AU. Read previous chapter for more of the storyline, this is just one of the smut scenes I had planned for it. / WARNING: Dubcon and minor angst.

> "He will never be my Ivan," Alfred hissed at the witch. "Never."
> 
> "Tell that to him," Arthur replied smoothly, crossing his legs in grass. "As far as he is concerned, he is your Ivan and you are his."
> 
> "Never," the Nymph snarled and the trees visibly shrunk back from his swelling rage. "He will never have me  _and_   _he will never be my Ivan_." 

Lying there in Ivan’s arms felt wrong.

Alfred was in the wrong set of arms. Yes, these were the arms of the man whom had braved death several times over for him. Yes, Ivan cared for him. Yes, Ivan would do anything for him –

-but it felt _wrong_.

This wasn’t his Ivan. This wasn’t the right one. His Ivan had died years ago – this Ivan was his grandson, there was even a Roman numeral after his name to show that he was not the first Ivan Bragniski to have walked this Earth. He was only the eighth. Eighth. His Ivan had died over eight generations ago.

It tore Alfred’s in two.

Two hundred years locked in sleep had left his darling alone. Alone with those savages. Those rabid dogs. Mutts. Vermin. Road kill.

Alfred’s nails left red marks in Ivan’s bare chest, lip curling back in a snarl, until he composed himself and his anger became bittersweet. His Ivan had been bitten. He had been _stolen_ from his arms and forced to become something that wasn’t even his choice.

This Ivan had been born a wolf, had known no other life before that, just the same as his father and his father and so on. They had never known what it had felt like to be human as their ancestor. Granted, Alfred didn’t know either, but he had seen what his darling looked like before. Running amok the autumn leaves and eating sweet sap from the trees that the Nymph promised were safe for humans, chewing tree bark and watching the setting sun, sleeping among stars and starting the process over again-

His darling has been so young, barely into his youth and then he was stolen from Alfred’s bosom-

“Alfred?”

This one didn’t even say Fredka. He did not even know Russian, Alfred had tried. This imposter had claimed a sob story that his father was the only parent to speak it and had never taught him. Lies. He was Ivan – he was supposed to be Ivan – why was he so different?

Kisses were planted down his neck by alien lips. There were never like his darling’s soft ones. These were slightly chapped and there was a cold ring of metal on them. Cold. Like the leeches that had helped the fleabags steal his darling from him.

“You smell good…really good…” Alfred barely acknowledged the shift as the fraud twisted his body and moved to lean over the Nymph. The autumn spirit barely acknowledged the peppered kisses down his chest and trailing to his navel, hardly responding to the teasing licks meant to entice him and he didn’t dare return the meant-to-be romantic kiss to his lips.

He was practically stiff in the imposter’s arms.

Even as the larger body did his best to excite him, tried to touch in all of the right places and tried to be the best lover he could be. The lover he would never be. The position had been filled and cemented over once Alfred had seen his darling’s grave. The other was still trying to get a rise out of the Nymph, using that fat disgusting tongue on just about every piece of skin that he could reach.

His darling’s face came to mind and the next time that that wolfish tongue went down on him, he let out a small moan. Had the pale wolf above him a tail, it would have wagged. Nonetheless, he was putting more energy behind those strokes now and it was getting harder to ignore him. A pun. Alfred thought he remembered his darling being fond of those.

But then the fraud was kissing him and moving himself. Alfred couldn’t remember the other even asking to have sex. He just did it. Animalistic. He was trying to leave hickies everywhere to show off his claim. As if.

He did not care.

He couldn’t care.

Why should he?

The only one to truly claim Alfred and have the Nymph allow it was his darling. But his darling was dead and this imposter just liked sex with him.

So what if the fraud cared about him?

Loved him?

Don’t make Alfred laugh.

He was just waiting for the mutt to finally knot a bitch and produce the next Ivan before he killed him. But then again if he did it now, he’d never to have to see his darling’s face marred with more imperfections and ruin. Never again.

In the end, he did nothing but lay there-

“I love you, Alfred.”

-and say nothing.


	21. broken teacups

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They didn’t have a very healthy relationship, by all definitions, it was outright dysfunctional. But the sex and highs were almost too good to leave. Didn’t help that the other would go home and pretend nothing was wrong with this lifestyle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #21: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: Mature / Prompt: Vampire/Werewolf AU. / WARNING: Toxic relationship. Domestic abuse, drug use, vague dubcon/drugged sex, and minor violence. Angst. Implied infidelity. Blood, biting and violence kink.

> I don't know just where I'm going  
> But I'm gonna try for the kingdom, if I can  
> 'Cause it makes me feel like I'm a man  
> When I put a spike into my vein  
> And I'll tell ya, things aren't quite the same  
> When I'm rushing on my run  
> And I feel just like Jesus' son  
> And I guess that I just don't know
> 
> - **"Heroin" by The Velvet Underground, 1967.**

Alfred was sprawled out on the ratty couch, dilated eyes blown out to Hell, and grin lopsided over his face. A bit of drool had escaped out of the corner of his mouth, as he barely stirred in his hazardous position. The rubber hand was still squeezing his arm and the needle still injecting empty poison into his bloodstream. Blue eyes were faded, vampiric heritage shown in how his body responded to the drugs and slit his pupils. Fat slits, that’s what they were, no more useful in sight than a blindfold on a blind man.

The vampire moaned, the drugs flooding and fogging his mind. The murkiness clouded his mind, lifting up to cloud nine and the vampire could feel the euphoria act like a lead weight on his limbs. The pleasure was like a wet blanket, laying over all over his skin and smothering him, taking his very breath and throwing itself into the air he needed. It was heaven, nirvana – it was-

-the door slammed shut.

Alfred was too far gone to react, but the minute that he had heard the door slam, he knew he was going to be in deep shit. His needles were in plain sight. He tried to think and see if he remembered to buy clean needles – Damn, his head was murky. Shit, he had bought some good stuff this time, oh yes. He would take a while to come down from this one. He couldn’t even remember why he had been afraid a second ago.

“…-ou shot up again, huh?” There was a shadow blocking the light from Alfred’s floor lamp. He blinked his eyes, trying to focus. That voice sounded familiar, why was it familiar? Who-

A claw trailed his chest, smooth nail easily felt through the thin flannel that the vampire was wearing, and goose bumps rose on his skin. He took a shallow breath, the euphoria in his veins easily increasing his arousal. He licked his lips, fangs sliding out and into clear sight.

His throat was grabbed, "D-don't," the vampire started, the drugs hadn't kicked in enough for him to take a beating. Ivan only grabbed his throat when he was really upset, usually with his wife back at his house. But they never talked about it. Ivan didn't like Alfred talking about his wife, even though he was sure that Ivan's wife knew and talked about him. Probably in the same sentence as the word, 'homewrecker.'

Which was misleading, because the only homewrecker was Ivan as he swept various items off of the coffee table, slamming Alfred's head down on it, a spiderweb of cracks appearing on the wood, the vampire moaning in response to the pain. the older wolf would always get off quicker if he saw himself abusing someone, he never liked to talk about that either.

Hiking the vampire's legs up on his shoulders, pants already long gone, the younger felt something almost unfamiliarly welcome when Ivan was lining himself up. "I-is that a-?" He started, Ivan slammed into the younger body and Alfred almost screeched, instead, hissing and biting his lip and letting blood make little rivulets down his lips. His nails were probably embedded into the coffee table again, it'd be a bitch to pull them free without breaking any of them later. 

"Oh, shut it," Ivan snarled. He started up a brutal pace, if Alfred could have moved his hands, he'd be holding his stomach. It was almost too deep, the drugs blocking out most of the pain from a lack of preparation and giving him a false sense of pleasure from the rough sex. "I forgot the last time and you're using again, I don't want your filthy diseases," the wolf continued, taking a firm grip on the vampire's blond hair and yanking it back to expose the neck. His last hickey was still there, Alfred wasn't into people marking up his neck, he had enough marks on the insides of his arms, but Ivan never cared to stop trying. 

"I-I'm clean," Alfred tried to defend himself. He let out a high-pitched keen as Ivan hit something delicious inside of him, his fangs were going to cut up his lips at this rate. "W-went by the clinic the other day."

"Don't believe you," Ivan grunted, rubbing himself against that specific spot to make the vampire see stars behind the drug fogged haze. He was staving off his climax, he wanted Alfred to come first. He always saw sex as some kind of competition, the young vampire just wanted one night of rose petals and soft kisses, but Ivan made it very clear that he wouldn't ever do that for him. It always kinda stung being used like some kind of ...something. The younger didn't have a word for the feeling or how Ivan treated him, but he was sure if there was a word, it wouldn't be good.

Alfred came quick enough with the right manipulation against his prostate, Ivan never touched his cock. Never had, probably never would - but had no problem in pushing the vampire down on his cock in some form, mouth, ass or into his hands - depended on his mood really. He was wary of Alfred's nails more so than his teeth, however, something that the vampire found hilarious - until he was getting punched. Having a chipped tooth for a couple hours until it healed over hurt like a bitch, or maybe he was remembering the feeling of Ivan's glare and how vulnerable he had felt. 

The memory was cut short as Ivan was pulling up his pants and adjusting his clothes to leave. Alfred remained on the coffee table, catching up with the rest of his high and trying to ride out the rest of the small tingles of pleasure going up and down his spine. When the werewolf finally left did he finally let out the first sob. The drugs in his system didn't help him in his hysteria as he started crashing some few minutes later, limping his way to his bathroom to shower and just sit at the bottom of the showerhead for a while. The water had long gone cold when he had started sniffling after crying until his eyes felt sore and puffy underneath the water spray.

God, he was a _wreck_. 


	22. Lovely Gems in Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the mouth of their mining cave collapses, the government immediately lists all men inside as dead, not even thinking to try and save them. But it would seem there is hope: A bright figure of light that had taken a fancy to one of the workers, who says he’ll set them free if they leave one of their own behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #22: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: Teen / Prompt: Miner Ivan and haunted mines / WARNING: Implied character death(s), unrequited affections and minor violence.

> Hammering away at the debris, and the hard rock before them, from a little before dawn to well after sunset; these workers were able to retrieve many jewels and minerals from the cave. Diamonds and rubies, gold and silver, iron and lead, there were in such abundance, it looked as if the mine would never close. The minerals and treasures inside were too much, there was too much to be done.

There workers retired around a fire, at late that evening, laughing. There were a total of eight of them. A German by the name of Ludwig, who was their unofficial overseer to make sure all regulations were kept in place. There was Gilbert, Ludwig’s supposed older brother, who was the unofficial dumbass and made it his point to make all of them laugh every day, even if the day was long.

There was the slight, but surprisingly muscular Englishman by the name of Arthur Kirkland. He usually wrote, after his mining work, and he liked to tell stories to the others, when he wasn’t claiming that there was something off about the cave.

How, he said, he felt watched and that he swore that there was light in the deeper delves where the miners were told not to go into. It was dangerous, their inspector said, it will have to wait. Arthur had ventured close a few times, and nearly always came back looking like he had just seen a ghost of himself.

There was Francis, the obvious French bred of their group, who steadily told of his past escapades with what he called “hundreds of dozens of women”! Arthur would call him a Frog and ignore him, unless the other was trying to make another comment on the other being too feminine, Ludwig would actually listen to his stories, but it was Gilbert who was his closest friend.

Ivan was one of better miners, having worked on a farm with his family back in Russia, he said. The Russian was only tied with being the tallest in their group by one other, everyone else he had to look down on. Ivan usually kept to himself, and hardly spoke.

He knew English, but it was just thought that the Slavic miner was uneasy to trust others; especially in a dangerous environment, where anyone can die. He had one somewhat of a steady friend in the Swedish and Danish members of their group named Berwald and Mathias. Often, the three would share vodka and just sit quietly, sometimes there would be conversation, but most times, there was not.

Denmark: Mathias Køhler, he was their Dane, and their arrogant loud mouthed proposed “Viking”. He usually talked with Gilbert and Francis, but when to sleep, kept close to Ivan and Berwald. Why, it was unknown, but when asked, Mathias turned shockingly silent. His face would go flat, and then said: “We have a past.”

He kept a strange silver locket around his neck, which he let no one ever touch or open, but usually opened before lights out to view the black and white picture of an expressionless male with a little bundle in his arms caught mid-wail. Since no one had ever seen the inside of the locket besides the Dane, it was unknown who these people were or their attachment to him.

There was lastly the Swiss member, a short man by the name of Vash. He was a little loose when using the explosives, but he was a hard worker and was loyal by his word. He didn’t talk much either, and was one of the few workers to have a gun in the mines besides Ludwig and Ivan.

All of these nine worked day in and into the night, everyday for six months in that mine. They brought up plentiful amounts of value, but then one night, after work, Arthur came back from venturing to the outside, and said: “We have to leave the mine. Immediately.”

The slim Englishman was already headed to his pack and tent, mumbling under his breath about dangers and how something was starting to grow bold.

“Wait-what?” Gilbert said, around the spoon in his mouth. Ludwig frowned, and then told his brother to be quiet as he called to Arthur, “What do you mean by ‘we need to leave’?”

Vash spoke up, albeit his short temper already spiked, as Mathias frowned and Ivan looked to Berwald. The Swedish miner shrugged, and Ivan frowned. “What the Hell are you going on about, you idiot?” Vash shouted, “I don’t remember an order for us to leave. So, whose orders are going on?”

Arthur glared at them, and it was then that they all saw his blood dripping off one of his hands. How the Englishman’s arm and near entire person was dirty and how his sleeve was missing fabric.

Ludwig was up in an instant, while Francis scurried for the bandages. Gilbert put down his bowl of food, while Ivan put down his vodka bottle. Berwald stood, glaring off in the distance with Mathias.

Something in the distance…it was glowing an eerie red light.

“We need to leave now!” Arthur barked, as he tried to pull one of his bags onto his shoulder. Ludwig tore it back down, and forced him to sit, as Francis tried to push the sleeve up. The Frenchman swore softly, “What did you do to your arm, are you even in your right mind?”

“I damn well am!” Arthur snapped, wincing as Francis dabbed at the heavy claw swipes etched into his skin. It almost looked they were meant to spell something, but it wasn’t until Francis completely cleaned the blood did he read the warning set in flesh: “Get out.”

Francis looked to Ludwig, who said nothing. Gilbert swore at the wound and Vash said nothing. Mathias was walking toward the darkness where the lights were, until the lights seemed to flicker and then their lights grow more intense, as if in threat.

Berwald called out, “Stop.” But for some reason, Mathias didn’t. Whereas before, he would’ve at least asked why to, the Dane said nothing, but kept walking. It was if he was in a trance, he kept right on walking, until at last the lights just let out a sudden screech.

Then Mathias seemed to snap out of it, as something red swiped at him. The Dane shrieked, and tried to dash back, Berwald and Ivan running to grab him as the red streak looked ready to strike. Arthur suddenly paled, his breathing suddenly heavy, as his eyes grew dark. “Get…out,” he murmured. “It…doesn’t want… us here. This is…its home…we need to…”

Vash caught the Englishman as he fell forwards, still mumbling but now getting louder and more hysterical, “Get out, it wants us out! We need out! Out! Out! Out! We need out! Out!”

His words were cut off as Mathias screamed, the red streak had constricted his neck, and though the Dane kicked and dug his heels and screamed, Ivan and Berwald trying to hold him and save him, the red streak tried to drag them all down to the dark venturing.

Then, Gilbert and Ludwig suddenly took hold of Ivan and Berwald, trying to bring them both back. Mathias’ blue eyes widened, Berwald and Ivan struggling to bring their friend back, but the others not letting up.

With another jerk of the red and sudden push from the other miners, Berwald and Ivan fell to the ground, without Mathias as the Dane was dragged down into the black.

All was quiet, as Berwald made it to his feet first, and tried to run after the vanished Dane. A moment after the silence, and Berwald’s standing, came a dual screech and Mathias’ horrified screaming. The screeching made every man cower in on himself, cupping their ears and squeezing their eyes shut.

This kept on for nearly a full minute, as every man was sent to his knees, their minds going into near madness. Arthur suddenly laughed amidst it all, going on in some sort of language that no one knew. Mathias’ screaming suddenly stopped, and then all of their lights, but the fire which went out for a split second, blew with a high-pitched screech.

When the fire came back on, albeit weakly as if afraid, all was quiet, and then a great boom was heard, before a loud hiss. The fire flickered back to life, Arthur was lying unconscious on the ground, still, and Mathias’ locket was lying haphazardly near the fire.

Berwald and Ivan rushed to their vanished comrade’s most prized item, and found it gruesomely covered with blood and something akin to black gunk, but it was open. For the first time, someone other than Mathias was seeing the inside. Which was revealed to be the same expressionless male and the wailing bundle in his arms as before, but now, it had been tampered with to include a terrifying addition. Their faces were scratched out, and dots of blood were in the inside.

Despite how Ludwig looked away, and Berwald tried to politely close the locket, as Ivan stood back up and looked back at the dark venturing. The lights were moving silently, vibrating. Ivan frowned, and almost made to walk out to investigate, before Berwald pulled him back and shook his head.

Ivan nodded after a moment, and turned his attention back to their main group just in time to hear Gilbert say, “That’s fucking nasty…”

But what made him start to worry more, was when Vash suddenly panicked, as he saw their usual plan of exit of the cave. It was blocked by more than four tons of rubble. The Swiss gripped his hair tightly, muttering in angry Latin. “What the Hell do we do now?”

Ludwig turned to look, as did the others, and all made their own swears and words of frustration. Gilbert was the first to speak, “I say we find another route…” He turned to his brother, “There is one…right, West?”

Ludwig said nothing, as he ran his fingers through his hair, and then he slowly said in an accented tone, “Ah, Gilbert, well…”

“It’s beyond the dark side of the cave,” Ivan spoke up and all turned to look at him, “where Mathias was…taken to.”

Gilbert looked back at the dark space, saw the quivering lights, and said, “Yeah. Like Hell will I be going anywhere close to that red freaky shit.” No one saw how the lights burned bright, before dying out suddenly and throwing a small gust over the open space.

Ivan shivered, unnoticed, as he thought he felt something pull at the metal pipe concealed underneath his shirt. Ivan turned, and saw nothing. He looked to the ground, and saw the slight impression of footsteps. But not booted feet, or even human footsteps, they looked like they had claws and were very hot if the blackened sand was anything to go by.

He frowned, just as Vash snapped, “Ivan! Are you paying any attention?”

Ivan looked back to his group, where everyone was as far as they could get from the dark ventures. The Russian blinked, and then caught up to his group to the disappointed hiss of air behind him. He barely overcame the urge to look back. But he told himself not to, looking back at something only made it real…

He didn’t think he wanted to know that the thing behind him was real. Not by a long shot.

Ivan was settling into his makeshift bed, hearing Berwald do the same behind them. The miners were getting more worried with every shadow that darted out around them. That wasn’t all that Ivan was concerned about.

Arthur still hadn’t woken up, but his arm was swelling and turning slightly green around the deeper marks and an ugly shade of pale purple around the parts that were still managing to stain his bandages red. He had a fever, and was very still, his breathing was labored and shallow.

Vash and Francis agreed to share their tent to keep watch over him, Vash publicly proving his point by reloading his gun and then polishing it inside of his tent.

Ivan was comfortable as he was going to get, when Berwald spoke up, “D’ ya thi'k we’ll find 'im?” Ivan shrugged, and took his time answering. Then, he sighed and said, “I don’t know, comrade. I just don’t know. I would hope so.”

“He 'as family,” the Swedish said, around a yawn, “B’ck hom', h’ told m’ so.” Ivan frowned, and then bit his lip.

But what the Russian start was when he saw a light shadow dart around them, Ivan stiffened, but then he saw it go towards a different area of the camping grounds, rather than his tent or others on either side of him. He let out a sound of relief, and then turned to see Berwald eying him, worry within his harsh and stern gaze.

“I’m fine,” Ivan said, as he turned and sighed, trying to ease his nerves enough to get sleep. “I’m fine, don’t worry about me. Just get some sleep.” The Russian heard the other shift a bit, and then a muttered, “G’od n’ight.”

Ivan said nothing in response, but it wasn’t because he didn’t hear him. It was because he couldn’t seem to shake off the feeling of being watched. Needless to say that he didn’t get much sleep that night.


	23. Eat Your Heart Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Red Circus wanted Alfred’s head. Ivan was wanted all over Europe since his escape out of a Siberian lab in the 1940s. Needless to say the two freaks hit off real quick when they found each other. An acrobatic cannibal and a genetically modified werewolf, they were a pretty kinky pair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #23: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: Mature / Prompt: Werewolfs and cannibalistic acrobats/ WARNING: Implied onesided relationship, implied sex, violence and cannibalism.

A lithe body swung from the lamp post, curving their entire form around the metal just in time to avoid a barrage of bullets coming for where his head had once been. He slid down, breaking into a run and ducking behind pedestrians and cars alike, cartwheeling and flipping over the large obstacles as he flung himself about expertly to avoid the incoming gunfire and pushing crowds. If the circus wanted his head, then they’d have to fight to get it. Alfred wouldn’t let them just take him – he was going to live. If to live meant he had to fight dirty then damn it, he would.

And by fighting dirty, he meant using guns just as the same as they were doing. Well, same model –not the same power, Alfred had black market guns that he had tweaked just a little. Something only supposed to deal out four armor piercing rounds could now shot six rounds of bullets with enough power to pierce through over a foot of concrete. The best part, little to no recoil on his handguns; as for his rifle – well, let’s say the target took the kickback as an extra damage.

A few knives stashed on his person, several trick and smoke capsules and a poisonous needle pouch on his belt, even a pair of grenades if all Hell broke loose. He inwardly hoped he wouldn’t have to use the grenades. He had got them from a very shady dealer and the way the man boasted on their range made him feel like he’d bought an atomic bomb in the size of a small apple.

Alfred backflipped out of the way of an incoming assault; using the momentum to consecutively kick out at his opponent’s chin, knocking back their head as he watched them tumble back and snarl. He hit the ground gracefully, twisting his arms just so, to contort around their incoming kick and latch onto their body and then toss them into the busy intersection. A screech of tires and a crash – Alfred didn’t stick around to see the results of the “accident.”

He had to get out of here.

:::

Inwardly, Alfred was wondering just how many men that the circus had sent after him. Sure, he had killed a few so called ringleaders – well, ate them is a more correct phrase – and he had set fire to one of their tents and he had ran over a performer or twelve but he hadn’t been too bad. No wait, he forgot that he had convinced one of their best performers to kill himself through emotional manipulation. That and he had killed the witnesses. Oh, and he had been “sampling” a few customer during show hours.

But eh, those were small details in a bigger picture. Said picture being that the circus had wanted his head to put on some shiny mantle but Alfred wasn’t going to let them. He liked living, he loved this life, and he fully intended to indulge himself with each and every breath he took.

Freedom became a sort of religion to him and the streets acted as forms of prayers for him, scaling and leaping over buildings, twisting 'round and over streetlights and posts, standing atop traffic lights and looking down on everyone like ants.

His new religion was potent in his veins.

:::

Meeting Ivan had been accidental. 

Alfred  had been running again, breath coming in as ragged pants for air, clutching a bleeding gunshot wound in his side. Pain was dulled from the syringe he'd stuffed into his thigh earlier, the drugs he'd stolen hazed the pain receptors in his brain and left him better able to fight off his pursuers. He had flipped, ducked and kicked out at anyone that might have gotten close - but snipers were difficult for him. He wasn't a big fan of long distance fighting, guns weren't his style unless it went off with a great big bang.

It just so happened that when he had leaped down from that one particular building at that one particular night at that one particular second, he would leap onto the bike of an overgrown muscle of a man, swiping the assault rifle off of his back and firing at the apartment building he had just leaped from - watching it explode from the upper floors and start to go up in flames, a gruff voice going, "Nice shot, but don't let me catch you touching my shit again."

Alfred had grinned, holding the great man around his thick waist, mouth watering as his fingertips met hard muscle underneath a decent layer of fat. He licked his lips, "No promises, big guy, you're stuck with me."

:::

Ivan had never kicked him off the bike.

So Alfred had stayed with him and ditched his old fraying uniform some few cities back while still on the run; even going so far as to steal someone's credit card, buy a full outfit to match his new 'boyfriend' - not that Ivan returned his affections at first. It took a full week on riding on his bike, sucking his dick every other rest stop before Ivan had finally let him ride in a dingy bathtub and spilling water over the rim of the tub. Alfred also had taken a great chunk of the man's shoulder. However, watching the flesh meld together right before his eyes, hearing an inhuman snarl and feeling sharp nails pierce the soft flesh of his hip-

Just enough to push him over the edge of climax.

Ivan hadn't been done with him yet, pulling him down into an open-mouthed kiss full of teeth and gnashing.

It was worth the succulent and juicy piece of meat in his mouth and drilling into his ass.

:::

A few months into their new routine, it was Ivan who said something, "I was experiment."

 Alfred laughed, "I was adopted too!"

"I wasn't kidding."

"Neither was I."

:::

A Soviet bioengineered werewolf, Ivan explained one night. He had been smoking, brow still weak with sweat from a nightmare and a previous round of sex. Alfred always listened better after eating and biting, Ivan didn't care about the cannibal's requirements, just asked that he would pay attention and listen. Alfred listened very well when he was fed.

Apparently, Ivan and some several others had been meant to be part of a human weaponry program that had blown up in their faces when they had control during one of experiment's rages and amidst the chaos, Ivan got loose. He'd been on his own ever since 1947, he claimed. WW2 had also been a bitch on the Soviet front for most of his pre-engineered years. But post the experiments, he was near indestructible. Regular bullets did nothing to him and most blades broke upon contact with his skin, he could shift into a more wolf like form but he preferred not to, as in wolves were not as common as they used to be and his second skin drew attention. 

Ivan had come from a "normal" Soviet family, an alcoholic father and a nonexistent mother, he lost his older sister to prostitution in the Near Abroad and his baby sister to drugs in Russia. He had dated a girl once - she was shot and hung like a pig as a spy by the other Soviet soldiers, luckily, no one knew about him and her having been almost a public item.

He went on to say that while he did adore Alfred's almost bug like resilience, he had no interest in being with him romantically or beyond anything they were doing now. He preferred to keep his lies loose, easy for splitting should the need arise and harder to trace back to him. It stung, Alfred felt the sting deep in his bones, but he had grinned and nodded. Saying that as long as he got a piece of the Russian every night, he wouldn't care if the man was planning on killing him.

:::

It was a lie.

:::

The first time they fought was when Ivan had heard Alfred mutter something during sex and try to deny it, saying he was just moaning and for the Russian not to bitch about it. The second time, Alfred had barely made sure Ivan was fully asleep before he had started sniffling, fingering the new bite on his own shoulder and the matching one on Ivan. The man claimed nothing could break his skin but Alfred always left marks on his pale flesh. 

Ivan also had a big scar over his heart, a place that Alfred like to trace at night, gently pulling at the hairs and scraping his nails against the warm skin.

So warm, warmer than Ivan had ever been to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfinished, but likely to post more updates in the future.


	24. The Last Glass of Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic lies strongly in the blood brought, a once powerful magician said. So what happens to the kidnapped babe who was raised by the same mythical being that stole him from his crib? What of the King who fell for his caretaker? What of the Prince whose kin is stolen from him and the heart with which he unknowingly gives to a killer?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #24: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: Teen / Prompt: Royalty and Fantasy AU. / WARNING: Minor violence, kidnapping and magical beings.

> “The babe! The babe!”

The guards on the hallway watch turned to the sound of frantic maid, her blue eyes wide and fearful, and a wailing bundle in her arms. Her dress was half torn, blood clinging to her, rivets falling partly after her. She was gasping for breath as she finally came to a stop before them, the squirming mass of blankets barely at her breast before she collapsed on one guard’s chest. He luckily caught the bundle, but not his blood ran cold as the maid’s body crumbled to the floor. He saw the vicious stab wounds in her back, wondering how she had ran from the nursery to their hall with such heavy damage.

As the guard puzzled over this, wanting to get rid of the crying bundle in his arms, an eerie glow came about the hallway, like that of a pearl blue essence dancing down the darker recesses. The second guard turned, baring his sword, “Speak, trespasser!”

The glow did not halt, instead its glow intensified.

A pair of eyes came into view above the source of the glow, a large sapphire embedded between the collarbones of a figure walking slowly down the hall. The guards both took a sudden seize of breath. This was not good.

“Run,” said the second guard to the other. When the taller looked down at him, the second guard was already preparing himself for a fight. “Go,” he reaffirmed, “You have the Prince. Run, run now, and be quick about it. Get him to safety,” he said, freeing his second sword from his belt. “His life is in your hands now.”

“But brother-” The first guard tried to argue.

“Run, you fool, before you doom this entire kingdom with your stubbornness!” The second guard snapped. “If I die, so be it.” His face was grim, even though he tried to smile. “At the very least, I’ll be able to look down from the Heavens and see my little brother hailed as the savior of the little Prince.”

The first guard nodded once and then took off down the hallway.

He had made it to the staircase before he felt the walls shudder violently as the floor began to crack and crumble under his feet. He licked his lips, holding the bundle in his arms tighter. He would not fail. His brother had trusted him with the task and he would not fail, he could not-

He fell through a step, falling, falling, and steadily falling through the tower.

He had never known the tower was so tall until he was falling through its depths.

The bundle started to unravel and he saw light blond hair, then a chubby pink face and wet purple eyes look back at him. So big, so afraid, he almost felt-

They hit the ground.

The first guard found his body impaled on rubble, arms falling to his sides as life pooled out and underneath him. He turned his head painfully; his eyes straining to see what had become of the bundle and found his heart clench even in his dying state.

The white blanket was now red.

So very red.

 A tiny pink hand twisted peeking out of the folds. The wind blew and he saw wispy blond hair now dipped in red, more wind blew and the guard saw the folds pull back and reveal the poor babe smeared over a piece of rubble. A tear escaped the guard as he gave his last few breaths. He had failed his brother and his kingdom. The Prince was dead.

A chime sounded behind him but his neck would not turn. Instead he watched a slim figure come into view. Their back was tanned and visible, covered in deep inked designs and symbols. They walked and their transparent blue skirt billowed after them, their wrists and ankles creating noise with various gold jewelries. Their bare feet made no noise. They kneeled to take the bundle into their arms and the guard blinked, as the babe came to life. Crying, healthy and loud wails of a living child, but as the guard’s vision began to fade he saw the changes in the babe.

The Prince’s eyes were now blue, not violet. He was no longer pink but pale. Even his cries sounded different, almost ethereal in a way, not human…not human...not human…

The figure padded over to him and knelt down in front of him. The guard was almost dead, the figure’s gender was impossible to place in his near dead vision. He was shocked that he had lived this long. The last thing he saw were the babe’s new colored eyes next to those of a similar color. 

:::

Alfred walked in the forest, huffing for breath. Exhaustion sank into his bones as he took a much needed break on a tree stump. Breaking into the castle had taken a lot from him but he had what was rightfully his. The tiny babe clung to his heart, little fingers curling and uncurling around the edges of skin surrounding the sapphire in his chest. He gave a much needed sigh, watching his breath come out as little puffs of air before him.

He watched the stars, feeling magic run through his veins and hum through the little child’s arms as well. The child’s was so weak in comparison to him, only having magic in his veins to balance out his death. The boy would live as long as that magic kept humming in him.

Alfred slumped against the stump, too exhausted to even move despite the cold and the snow falling all around him. He knew he had to keep moving, it was getting too cold and they would both die if exposed too long…but he was…so very tired…

He collapsed into the snow and crushed grass, curling into a ball to nestle the tiny babe in the center.

:::

A light grip on his shoulder started Alfred, as he forced his stiff neck to look up. Another figure, bundled up head to toe in heavy furs and weapons and firewood. The freezing blond could only stare up at them, snarling as his eyes flashed, holding the babe closer. He gave a glance down when they didn’t wiggle and making sure the bundle was still alive, finding comfort in labored breaths. They had been outside for a while; it was getting crucial to find safety.

He growled again, holding the bundle close to his heart, as the figure knelt down in the snow around them. Not even their eyes were visible and then, they pulled down their mask. One eye was mostly scarred over and barely any hazel eye visible, the other eye was milky white and blind, but the tattoos were unmistakable. This was a psychic.

The psychic pulled down his scarf, revealing a smile and more scars and tattoos. “I am a friend, I assure you. I want to help one of my own,” the bundled figure said. They held out their hands, waiting for Alfred to trust him and take his help.

Alfred looked up at him, unsure and silent.

The figure’s expression seemed to soften, “It has been too long since I have seen one of us…I thought-” He cut himself off, “I am just thankful that more than just me walks across these green plains.”

The bundled figure said something else, in a tongue that the blond had not heard in what felt like decades. Alfred blinked at the other, frowning for a second and then forcing one numb arm to reach out. The figure smiled down at him, shedding his outer coat and covering the blond as a sign of goodwill, “At ease, friend, I will protect you both.”

The figure picked up the blond with a grunt, leaving the weapons and firewood rolls on his back. Alfred held the babe close to his heart, huddling close to the figure and burying his nose in the stranger’s coat. It even smelled like his kin, herbs and magic. It was a smell that brought comfort in its mere presence. He barely noticed the walk home, exhaustion and warmth lulling him to a loose form of sleep. He awoke when he was laid on a soft bed, blearily opening his eyes and seeing the bundled figure making a fire by hands.

Alfred was puzzled, confused as to why the psychic didn’t just cast a fire. He felt stronger out of the cold, warmer and now more confident in his abilities, he reached out with his mind and he felt himself nearly double back and go into hysterics when he tried to peer into the other’s heart.

It was broken.

Shattered.

…Gone…

The figure turned slowly, having felt the blond try to reach out, and his expression was grim. His voice was bitter, “It was the price to walk away…”

No magic. The other carried dead veins in his tattoos, he could not perform magic. His heart was shattered. There was no way for magic to enter him. Any magic he might have had before, any spell he had cast on himself would have vanished in the instant that his heart was destroyed. How he had even lived through the gruesome experience, let alone continued to live afterwards, was a mystery to Alfred.

The figure grunted, shedding his other coats and hood, revealing the dead tattoos that covered his body in old designs and spells that he could never use. They were a deep green and looked against his darker skin. His hair was getting long, as were his ears, he had not trimmed either in a while. He seemed to live alone.

He wore a sleeveless vest of tan hide, his pants were wide mouthed and brown, his boots simple and black. He wore shoes, which meant that he didn’t go barefooted anymore.  Alfred almost pitied him.

“Are you hungry?” The stranger asked, “Ah, my name is Sadik.”

Alfred felt some tension leave him at hearing the familiar syllables. It was still one of their language, even if all else was taken from him, the stranger - Sadik - had kept his magical name. He had kept his identity and heritage.

Alfred kissed his finger, drawing loops in the air to spell his name in sparkles of electricity.

A smile started to form on his newfound acquaintance's face and then he frowned, “Alfred… Why do you not speak?”

Alfred cast his eyes away, ignoring the question and checking on the babe. Color was returning back to his face, small lilac tattoos forming on his palms and his breathing was even.

“Alfred?”

Said blond looked at Sadik, looked him dead in the eyes and slowly opened his mouth to reveal his price.

“No…” Sadik started, jumping to his feet. Dark hands cupped his face, thumbs brushing over the blond’s lips as the taller continued to stare down at the other incredulously. “They took it…they took your song…our kind is not our song, I…I’m so sorry…But...why-” Eyes darted to the babe.

Alfred slapped his hands away, not wanting the pity. He didn’t like dwelling on the loss of his song. His kind, Nymphs, were noteworthy for their voices and songs.

But it was worth it, the Nymph thought to himself, as he cradled the babe to his chest, shushing imaginary fears from the child's mind with a trill of magical words and a little flick to his nose. The babe babbled, giggled, and then curled into the Nymph's chest, nuzzling for affection. Sadiq watched on from outside of the circle, watching silently and almost suspiciously.

That babe was no ordinary child, something as valuable as a Song had been given up for its life and that was not a cheap price to pay. Nymphs did not take their Songs lightly - this babe was special. 

It had to be in order to be worth the price. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfinished and unlikely to continue.


	25. Fighting Love with Blades and Nails (1/2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One should have never seen them together. The handsome and heartless literal lady-killer. The pale beastly giant who swallowed up men whole. They should have never been together – at least, not alive - everyone was in danger for being killed for another one of their games.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #25: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: Mature / Prompt: Kinda Hetaween-centric AU, just more violent. / WARNING: Minor violence, some blood and minor character deaths. Implied dysfunctional relationship, part of a two-shot.

>  A scream tore through the air, the locals' head all hitching up at once. Everyone stopped what they doing in the eerie silence. Then, just as suddenly as the silence had begun, it was abruptly ended - it was broken by the squishing noise. The severed head of a charming young noblewoman flopped down on the outdoor cafe table.

The waitress of said table screamed and the nearby locals rushed over to see what was the manner as others - who knew the signs – hitched tail and ran as far as they could in those few minutes. Those would be among the few survivors that night. The ones who stayed behind were among the many who would most assuredly would not last the darkness. Or maybe, it was the beast that was to emerge from the darkness that would be their executioner. 

Amid the chaos, a pair of footsteps had remained calm and steady in the panic on the cobblestone. The footsteps were still a few ways off, but a few men were readying their guns to shoot. They had already formed a barricade of cars and tables – anything to stave off the one approaching.

"Is that any way to greet a good man before he's had a nice evening?" The voice was like warm velvet, smooth and seemingly irresistible in its seduction to the human ear. Cajoling. Persuasive. Deceiving. All of these things – this voice held them behind a single charm. The man finally came upon a lamplight, hefting a large weapon on his shoulder. Something that shouldn't even be possible within Southern Gothic aesthetic that he otherwise proclaimed. A wide blade with smaller serrated and rotating knicks on a single conveyor-like belt, everything was attached to a handle that hid a small engine to rev the blade and send the entire instrument of destruction into a furious motion.

A modern-day chainsaw.

And right then, it was dripping fresh blood; as the young man tossed aside the body of the severed head, he smirked. He smirked at the people, smile just as full of himself as his voice. But then again, he had some right to have his ego the way it was. He was handsome and he knew it. Blonde hair cut short to lift just barely at his ears, blue eyes the color of the summer day sky behind expensive wire framed glasses, and an evenly tanned face that held boyish freckles and a perfectly sculpted nose. An orange overcoat accented his well-placed shoulders and then narrowed down to the slight curve of his waist. The tails were specially tattered and dyed an ivy shade of green. An untucked white dress shirt was allowed to show a bit of skin under his collar bone beneath the brown vest, the outfit was finally topped off with the young man's signature orange overcoat. 

Perfectly evil – that was him. He had a name, one that he let be known every night when he appeared to set entire cities aflame and reduced to rubble, as he laughed atop his own pile of carnage-

Alfred.  
Alfred F. Jones.  
The Halloween Devil.   
The Living Jack-o-Lantern.   
The Masked Brat Outta Hell, by an incredible few.

Perfect and pearl-white teeth allowed to grace the locals' eyes as he grinned. "Aw, c'mon, can a nice guy like me just have a sweet time with a lovely lady and a few drinks with his fellow gentlemen?"

Such sweet and deceitful words. However, the bloody weapon he had yet to loosen his grip of, it ruined the 'nice guy' image. He pouted with perfect lips, as if saddened by how the women backed away and a few men cocked their guns. "Aw, are you guys still mad at me? I'm sorry..."

One hand flew to the white mask atop his head. It was swiftly pulled down, leaving only the thin slits for his eyes and some tiny row of dots over the mouth as the visible designs on it. His other hand flew to the throttle of his chainsaw as he revved the blade, grinning madly, "Let me make it up to ya!"

Bullets went off, people began screaming, scrambling to get away. Even with every best effort and uniformed officer on the street to shot, not a single shot made it to Alfred. Not a single one hit the target as Alfred launched himself up into the air, laughing as he spun once and aimed his booted foot towards the jaw of some unsuspecting poor fellow. The sound crack twisted his neck clear around and the force behind it actually made the head fall limp on the fellow's shoulders before he collapsed onto the ground. The demon child wasn't done, however, laughing behind his mask as he put his chainsaw through some horrified police officer, watching the poor man feel himself being ripped apart from the inside-out before he was kicked off the blade and cast aside to bleed to death.

Before the lad next to former officer had the breath to scream out in horror, much less to shoot, Alfred had sent his blade through half of his body, blood creating a curtain of red over him. He laughed again, this time at the bloodshed, revving the blade again in the mutilated body, throwing up the red blood with bits and pieces of gore through the air. He wished he could stick out his tongue to catch a drop of blood, before he licked his lips behind the mask, blue eyes turning electric and even more crazed by all of the chaos already ensuing.

"Take your best shot, buddy," Alfred purred, not even turning his gaze, as he ripped his blade from the previous carnage with little effort. The man before him was terrified, his hands shaking over the trigger of the pistol, as Alfred came closer. The human held up his hands in surrender, dropping the gun, and was about to vocalize said words of surrender, when Alfred severed his head and half of his upper body in a single swipe.

"Quitters never win," he smirked, and then deflected the bullets shot from his left with his blade. Not a single glance or turn, he knew where all attacks were being fired, his blade a silver blur of movement in deflecting the bullets fired in his direction. Alfred laughed, pouncing over various officers and armed men to teach them a lesson, when a howl pierced the air.

The cloaked assailant held up a man in his weapon, the human's body sinking down further on the blade, as the bloodthirsty male turned his head in the direction of the howl and grinned. Blue eyes brightened and his whole demeanor changed from that of 'a bloodthirsty killer' to an 'overly excited bloodthirsty killer.' He tossed the man from his blade, a single scoff before he was practically skipping to the source of the howl. "Ivan, baby, you made it!"

Said beast and source of the howl sat atop a building, glowering down at the one to have called out to him. He did not pleased, voice reflecting his upset, "Do not address me as such, you whore."

Ivan – the beast in question – was something of a monster. A cross of bear and wolf, and nothing to take lightly or with a grain of salt. Atop a head of snow white hair sat two gray pointed ears. Hyacinth eyes were slightly almond shaped and set in his pale face alongside a strong nose and completed with a set of large and ferocious teeth. Pale freckles dotted his nose, as his pupils slit briefly before dilating back. He was very tall, even taller than Alfred – and with such height came an even greater build. It was a wonder that the white suit he wore wasn't bulging from the thick muscles underneath. He wore black boots, the silver buckles catching the moonlight, as he adjusted the cravat at his neck. Such an elegantly dressed monster – that was Ivan. He was infamous for also spilling copious amounts of blood on his suits.

He jumped down, powerful legs taking the leap of more than thirty feet in stride. No one moved, even though a whole car was crushed under the beast's feet before he stepped down from it. He didn't even care for the damage he brought. The beast glared at Alfred, flexing a clawed hand, continuing on with their conversation almost fluidly, "I didn't come for you anyways, I was just hungry."

Alfred didn't seem to care, trying to bound over and get even closer, grinning, "And you happened to be summoned near me?"

"Fuck off," Ivan said smoothly. He walked right past the other, not even caring him a single glance as he went for the crowd. Some of them panicked, a woman bawling to her knees when he was still a good ways from her. Ivan snarled, the fear eliciting his blood lust. He had a known favoritism towards the weeping and desperate, something about it fueled his already throbbing ego and eagerness for bloodshed.

"Aw, but I haven't even gotten a kiss hello," Alfred purred, trying to get back in the beast's path. Such monster merely grabbed the orange coated male's weapon and used it to his advantage to try and toss the other out of his way, snarling. Alfred was tossed behind the other, and the only thing that saved him was his weapon itself as he stabbed it into a brick wall to take impact. He pouted, narrowing his eyes at Ivan, as he tried to forcibly remove it. Part of the brick structure crumbled inwards at the departure.

"I said – fuck off," Ivan snapped. "I am not interested." The beast licked his lips, claws flexing as an almost pleasurable growl began to brew within his throat. He was cornering the people at the cafe, the ones outside had been refused entrance back inside, chuckling darkly at the unfair treatment. Big feet crushed skulls beneath his feet, several officers tried to make a shot, but the first to try missed his mark and earned an uprooted sign through his gullet for retribution.

Just as Ivan had his paws right at the throat of some large-breasted woman who was crying off to the side – a bullet whizzed past the beast's cheek. It skimmed the flesh, a glint of blood but the wound quickly healed over. He snarled but turned anyways.

"Oh hell no," Alfred shouted at the beast, lowering the gun he had pulled from inside his coat, chainsaw waiting in his other hand. He was a livid lover again, his rage blinding his judgement. "You are not cheating on me for some buxom bitch," the glare delivered to the woman in question at the beast's mercy made the human whimper. More people slid from her side.

Ivan glowered, as he snarled, "And even if I was, there is not much for you to do to stop me."

With that, Ivan immediately took a chomp on the human. Blood ran down the entirety of her chest and Ivan's mouth. He ripped his mouth free, the bones in his jaw snapping quickly as he chewed over them. Alfred stomped over, intending to snatch the woman away, as he snapped, "No, just no – I am not happy."

Ivan paused in his devouring of the woman, letting her bleed out and grow weak at the knees from both pain and blood loss. No one attempted to help her, although some attempted to flee until Alfred shot three through their heads before they had even taken more than two steps.

"I do not care for your happiness, we are not together and you are insignificant to me," the beast spoke and took another bite out of the woman's chest. She couldn't even scream, her throat mostly gone and with it – her vocal cords.

"You are insignificant to me,'" Alfred mocked in a horribly faked Russian accent. Ivan's brow twitched but the shorter male kept going. Blue eyes dared to narrow further as they glowed with some unknown and dangerous electricity. He was snarling. "You cannot be serious, Ivan."

Ivan didn't seem the least bit afraid, even daring to lick the human woman's blood from his lips – something that enraged Alfred further. "As comical as your current expression is to me," the beast chided. "Your voice still grates on my nerves, so go away and do not come back."

The mocking tone and harsh words made Alfred's own brow twitch, as a maniacal grin began to stretch across his face. "Is that a challenge, I hear?"

"No," the low and thundering voice replied, everything about the beast right now was careful. "It is an order."

Alfred grinned and swung his blade up, already revved up; he was ready to catch the other off guard. A swift chop was taken to Ivan's shoulder, the metal sawing through the material clothes easily as a knife through wet butter. But Ivan's hardened flesh was another story, as it took more time to cut through. A few seconds was all it took for for the beast to howl with rage and toss the half eaten meal aside. The beast rounded on the Alfred, the shorter male only bothering to blow him a kiss, purring darkly, "Catch me if you can!"

Ivan leapt, as Alfred grinned and held up a special red vial. "You can't catch me – I'm the boogeyman!"

Alfred smashed the vial to the ground and Ivan dove right into the red cloud that sprang up. He sniffed, only catching the smell of hot spices that his eyes water and his chest constrict cough. The sound of the humans collapsing to the ground met his ears and he snarled. A dirty trick for even dirtier boy. Ivan allowed a grin. The trick was still a clever one.

He fully intended to find this 'Boogeyman'.


	26. I Met My Commie Online

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred thought ‘Snowflake’, his Internet girlfriend, would be some hot babe with a chest to rival Pamela Anderson, and a face to make Megan Fox jealous…he didn’t get what he was expecting. But rest assured, this Russian commie’s got the back to make up for his flaws. If you know what he means...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #26: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: K+ / Prompt: Sorta Catfishing-centric AU. / WARNING: Online relationships, kinda catfishing (utilizing an online identity and pretending to be someone you're not)

_The Hero is online._

> **The Hero:** _Yo! Snowflake! How ya been, babe? ;)_
> 
> **Snowflake:** _Same as every time you ask: I’m fine, but I could be better._
> 
> **The Hero:** _But~ Isn’t it better now that I’m here? ;D_
> 
> **Snowflake:** _…._
> 
> **Snowflake:** _LOL, that’s all I can say._
> 
> **The Hero:** _Haha, you’re really funny, do you know that? :3_
> 
> **Snowflake:** _I know, because you keep telling me. ^J^_
> 
> **The Hero:** _O wow, aren’t I awesome? XD_

Alfred smirked at his phone, enjoying the peace and feeling that someone actually liked and cared about him. Even if he was on a crowded subway, and the girl next to him was being too friendly by shoving her fake boobs at him every time the train made so much as a wiggle out of place. It was annoying frankly.

He smiled, tucking his phone away, awaiting a familiar vibration in his pocket to let him know when his Snowflake had replied. Yes, that’s right. His Snowflake, he and Snowflake had been going steady – seeing only each other only online kind of made the ‘coupling possibilities’ slim if anything at all – and since they were nearing their first anniversary, Alfred thought they were doing pretty well.

Another boob pressing into his side again and Alfred’s smirk twitched at one corner. Some people could be really dense; he had all but told the easy woman he wasn’t interested. He had done it multiple times. He had asked if she could stop, once, and then he ignored her. When he felt her at him again, he had asked again if she could please stop.

Mind you, this was the fourteenth time. He was kind of getting tired of the “Good Guy” card with this woman. He wasn’t interested, damn it. He sighed, and pinched his brow. Just as he was about to tell the woman he was getting off the train early, because she was being annoying, his phone buzzed.

His words to the woman trying to rub herself against him were forgotten, as he read the new message.

> **Snowflake:** Da, awesome. Stay awesome, Fredka, and I will remain funny. Sound good? :)

Alfred’s ‘Snowflake’ always knew how to win his heart and cheer him back up, no matter what. He couldn't wait to meet her in person, oh god, he couldn't wait to kiss her face in person. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfinished and unlikely to finish, it did have a happy ending from my notes.


	27. Out of the Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plato said that love was a grave mental disease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #27: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: T+ / Prompt: Siren + Witch AU. / WARNING: Violent relationship, kinda masochistic.

> **He neglected to mention its violent addictions.**

“Fredka…” Ivan adored the witch from afar, voice a formal of verbal silk from the sea – bait to the sharp teeth that spoke so sweetly to the blond standing on the rocky beach. “You are like a noose to me,” he pulled himself up the rock that Alfred sat on, webbed claws gripping the other male’s leg to restrict him from leaving.

 “A noose to leave me high and dry in your affections,” he smiled, showing off all three rows of his teeth.

Alfred looked at the siren flatly, blue eyes firm in the moonlight before his hand glowed and then he was grabbing Ivan’s throat. He smiled back, pink lips offsetting his cruel smirk. “And you are a literal leech on my soul.”

They grinned at each other, unwilling to let go.

Not that they ever would.

:::

Ivan brought Alfred a piece of seal once. He didn’t expect the witch to trust him, let alone eat it; both of them knew it was poisoned. Alfred didn’t even touch the seal. A pity, he would have looked so good with blue skin.

With a snap of his fingers, Alfred had set the siren on fire and smirked silently as the fish-tailed being burned in the water.

:::

Alfred came too close to the water once. Ivan did not hesitate to exact his revenge for his burns, the wounds barely visible now on his back, as he snatched the blond from the shore and down into the cold waters. He held Alfred tightly, despite kicks and punches and vain attempts to escape. He laughed underwater, scaring off the other aquatic life with his dark aura.

Just as Alfred was on the verge of drowning, Ivan kissed him hard, biting on his lip and moaning at the taste of the witch’s blood.

Alfred woke up on the shore, lips bloody and bruised, and a feeling stirred in his middle.

He didn’t acknowledge it, limping back home because Ivan had not been kind enough to throw his body on soft sand.


	28. Replacing Old Bandages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivan suffered from many ‘issues’ that are beyond his control. Few people could deal with him; even fewer would do so willingly. 3 months after his last caretaker quits, comes a new one…One that holds some of the same scars as Ivan and who could also possibly introduce new ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #28: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: T / Prompt: Caretaker/Patient AU. / WARNING: Unprofessional relations, mental illness(es), eating disorders, trust issues, past psychological abuse and past childhood abuse.

**Week One** :  A New Face to Ignore

They never stayed long. The nurses. They complained he was unstable, and irrational…which was kind of a fact really. But Ivan already knew that. He knew that being bipolar ran in his father’s family, not along that but schizophrenia and multi-personality ran in his mother’s. Ivan was given both ailments, which he had controlled well enough, but then…his eldest sister –

“He’s an intern,” the doctors promised, “Should be there only about a year.” The Russian had nodded, not really caring. They tried to tell about this new course, and how they were all excited for a new participant. But the Russian knew. He knew.

They were just happy that someone was going to take him off their hands.

Technically, Ivan Bragniski was a threat, he was dangerous. Because of his personality and what some doctors described as an “identity disorder”, Ivan could react differently to the same situation or become someone radically different from his “normal self”.

Because of his schizophrenia, often, what Ivan said he saw or heard was not trusted to be fact. Rather, it was noted down on some stupid clipboard. The doctors would just up his dosage of medication, and then tell him whatever he had seen and/or heard, no matter how real it had seemed, was nothing real and just his imagination. This would lead to Ivan becoming angry, but not infuriated.

No, his other ailment that people found hard to deal with was the fact that he was clinically noted as being bipolar. He had mood swings, to put it in simpler terms. They weren’t always sudden, or BAM – he was just angry for no reason. He could be angry, but then become steadily angrier. That was the difference. Most of the time, it was a growing development; not something that just appeared from thin air.

That was also why a lot of caretakers quit. They didn’t bother to read up on anything, just assumed that they knew what they were dealing with, because they thought they had experience or learned enough from Wikipedia. Reading something about and actually helping to take care of with the disorder were too different things.

That was one reason that one caretaker had nearly earned a knife through his hand. He had liked to say inappropriate things; he and Ivan had never really got along. He had said one thing, and the Russian had all but given him a few amputations of several fingers.

So he had quit, claiming “threat of bodily harm” from “irrational behavior”.  But then again, the albino could have said that Ivan had laid golden eggs and then refused to give him one; then called it quits. Ivan just didn’t…care anymore.

He was tired of getting his hopes up for someone to come in and just – understand. Just damn well know what he was going through, at least part of it, and not just regurgitate what they had learned from some professor in a textbook in a single paragraph or so, nor from just a website or a couple of websites.

Was it really that much to hope for?

Ivan was sitting at his desk in his office of his house, trying to read over a few documents and becoming steadily more irritated with each one. He was diagnosed with schizophrenia, not mental retardation. He could read, and as the Russian put the offer to sell his family’s estate into a paper shredder and watched it go through into little strips, he heard his doorbell ring.

Getting up to answer it, and having remembered his doctors’ words, he already knew what may be in store. An intern. They were down to just giving him an intern. That was how bad it had gotten, how much others could stand him even though they had been the ones to push his buttons all along.

He really was a lost cause.

:::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfinished chapter again; likely to continue!  
> Does get worse from here on out though.


	29. Don't Give Up On Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don’t be the one to take the first punch or be the first to fall. Don’t be afraid to play a few tricks. That’s rules of the underground street fights. So, it’s only by complete irony that when it came time for love, he was the first to fall. But that’s not the problem; the problem is who he fell for. Alfred F. Jones, America’s golden boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drabble #29: Pairing Order: RusAme / Rating: T+ / Prompt: President's Son + Underground Fighter. / WARNING: Some graphic violence, past childhood abuse/neglect and past psychological abuse.

> “Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.”
> 
> **–Leo Tolstoy**

Cheering, screaming, and shouts were basically white noise to him. He had to tune it out, in order to fight effectively with his whole concentration. The last time he had tried to listen in, he had gotten a pretty bad hit. He would not make that mistake ever again.

He could not disappoint.

He looked down at his opponent. He was big man, most likely on drugs from the hazy look in his eyes, and one with an unnatural amount of muscle. Ivan guessed the other fighter was also on a muscle drug, as well, and he felt bad for them, kind of. Kind of meaning, in this instance, he didn’t give two flying fucks if the man dropped a kitten right now.

Ivan would not let him win.

It was almost too easy to steel his violet gazes, eyes hardening into thin slits of color against his pale white skin. His ivory hair fell over his eyes, but it wasn’t distracting him or distorting his eyesight. He could still fight better than any other guy in the ring. That’s why the Russian Mafia hired him to entertain them.

He made good money with this, he had a good cover, and he led a good life. Sort of…he wasn’t allowed to speak of what happens outside the ring. Whatever, like that even mattered. It wasn’t like he could talk to anyone about it, anyways. He didn’t have too many friends. He tended to keep to himself, even outside of the ring, and few people found themselves brave enough to confront him.

_Ding- Ding_!

There was the bell, time to start the fight. Ivan looked to his opponent, his hands at his sides. The wrapping over his knuckles, his face expressionless, and his stance relaxed for easy movement and fluency.

The enemy came charging at him, all wrong. One there was a gap in their chest. They were running straight, instead of a curve and would be therefore easier to dodge. There legs were too stiff, and not allowing for any fluid movement. Their footing was sloppy and full of weak points. They even had their mouth open, screaming some kind of nonsense at him, as if it mattered.

Ivan sighed softly, shaking his head, as he looked at the enemy attempting to close in. “Nyet,” he spoke quietly to no one. Then, the **General Winter** , as he was called in the ring, showed his enemy just how many times he had gone wrong in coming to Ivan.

First, Ivan’s foot rose slowly and then quickly whipped around to land solidly at the other’s side. They grunted, in pain. That was his first opening. Ivan brought his elbow on their head, bringing up his knee to connect to their chin, causing them to gasp. That was their second mistake.

Ivan took no time to use the momentum gained from their collision with his knee to utilize a punch to send their head reeling in the opposite direction. Ivan hated the proud look that the other fighters gave him in the ring. It was their thinking that just because they had drug-induced muscle and fancy surgeries to gain more quickly, that they could easily win. It just…pissed him off.

But it was alright for now, as the other fighter was knocked into the metal cage surrounding them, because Ivan always proved them wrong. He showed them that he was stronger than him. He showed them he was smarter than them. At least, he was all natural in his muscle. He didn’t resort to drugs to flash fake biceps at girls.

One punch turned into two, three kicks into four. The sound of ribs breaking met his Ivan’s ears, but it didn’t matter, because it wasn’t his bones snapping. The sound of gasps told him the other fighter was still alive, if only for a little while. He tried to end the fight, as soon as possible.

Looking down at the other, them on the floor, and him standing above them, face still expressionless, Ivan said, smoothly, “Do not underestimate, comrade.” And then he brought his kick brought to send the other’s body right into the metal cage door. Just as the fighter broke it down, Ivan chose to walk back to his corner and wait patiently for his next opponent.

The white noise was even higher now, as men picked up the other fighter off the ground to see if he was still alive. So much noise, Ivan thought, he remembered when he used to beg for anything but silence as a child. Now, as an adult, he begged for anything other than the white noise he was forever forced to listen to as he broke someone’s body for their amusement.

“We shall rise above all our past,” the President spoke into the microphone. “We shall rise above, and we shall set the first to pave the steps to the future!” The crowd gathered in front of the Lincoln Memorial cheered. The President’s deep blue eyes gleamed with pride, as his dimpled chin rose. His sun-kissed skin made his smile seem even whiter. His dark suit fit him well, and outlined his athletic figure.

The First Lady smiled for the cameras, as she kept a firm hand on her son, Alfred’s shoulder. Her salon blonde curls were done perfectly, her make-up just so, and her outfit donning all of the national colors despite how she despised all of them but for the white. Her gray eyes looked so beautiful, and pure, despite how she was anything but that.

The touch she had upon her son only looked loving. In reality, she was indirectly warning him that if he screwed up, he would be in trouble later. In response to his mother’s “loving touch”, Alfred stood straight and proud. His wheat blonde hair had been combed and done, and he had managed to get his cowlick to appear tame in its stubborn fight to remain upright. His outfit was similar to his father’s, but lighter and in a shade of dark grey that brought the brilliance in his sky blue eyes.

His smile was as faux as his mother’s touch. He wanted anything than to be here, but he had to make appearances as the son of the United States of America President’s son. Even if, he didn’t want to.

His parents cared more about the fame and politics than they did him any day.

:::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfinished, but likely to continue. Very slow burn though; it does take a while for the pair to meet, let alone for the romance to start. Lots of rollercoasters in it though, I won't give everything away.


End file.
